"Then, what kind of a day _would_ you choose, Maria? Tell me--in a
whisper."
And then the disclosure came. But it was not whispered. Uncle Felix
heard the secret in a very clear, decided voice and in a single word:
"Birthday."
At the same moment the others poured into the room; they came like a
cataract; it seemed that a dozen children rushed upon them in a
torrent. The air was full of voices and flowers suddenly. A smell of
the open world came in with them. Button-holes were fastened into
everybody, accompanied by a breathless chorus of where and how they
had been found, who got the best, who got it first, and all the rest.
From the End of the World they came, apparently, but while Tim had
climbed the wall for his, Judy picked hers because a bird had lowered
the branch into her very hand. For Uncle Felix she brought a spray of
lilac; Tim brought a bit of mignonette. Eventually he had to wear them
both.
"And here's a forget-me-not, Maria," cried Judy, stooping down to poke
it into her sister's blue and white striped dress. "That suits you
best, I thought."
"Thank you," said Maria, moving her eyes the smallest possible
fraction of an inch.
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