to find it, and you will be
surprised to see how bright the world will seem, and how cheerful you
will be able to keep your little self."

"I guess granny has found that out, for she never frets. I do, but I'm
going to stop it, because I'm twelve to-day, and that is too old for
such things," said Marjorie, recollecting the good resolutions she had
made that morning when she woke.

"I am twice twelve, and not entirely cured yet; but I try, and don't
mean to wear blue spectacles if I can help it," answered the lady,
laughing so blithely that Marjorie was sure she would not have to try
much longer. "Birthdays were made for presents, and I should like to
give you one. Would it please you to have this little picture?" she
added, lifting it out of the book.

"Truly my own? Oh, yes, indeed!" cried Marjorie, coloring with pleasure,
for she had never owned so beautiful a thing before.

"Then you shall have it, dear. Hang it where you can see it often, and
when you look, remember that it is the sunny side of home, and help to
keep it so."

Marjorie had nothing but a kiss to offer by way of thanks, as the lovely
sketch was put into her hand; but the giver seemed quite satisfied, for
it was a very grateful little kiss. Then the child took up her basket
and went away, not dancing and singing now, but slowly and silently; for
this gift made her thoughtful as well as glad. As she climbed the wall,
she looked back to nod good-by to the pretty lady; but the meadow was
empty, and all she saw was the grass blowing in the wind.

"Now, deary, run out and play, for birthdays come but once a year,
and we must make them as merry as we can," said granny, as she settled
herself for her afternoon nap, when the Saturday cleaning was all done,
and the little house as neat as wax.

So Marjorie put on a white apron in honor of the occasion, and, taking
Kitty in her arms, went out to enjoy herself. Three swings on the gate
seemed to be a good way of beginning the festivities; but she only got
two, for when the gate creaked back the second time, it stayed shut, and
Marjorie hung over the pickets, arrested by the sound of music.

"It's soldiers," she said, as the fife and drum drew nearer, and flags
were seen waving over the barberry-bushes at the corner.

"No; it's a picnic," she added in a moment; for she saw hats with
wreaths about them bobbing up and down, as a gayly-trimmed hay-cart full
of children came rumbling down the lane.

"What a