y!' Henry had lifted the basin.

'Had you forgotten it was your birthday?' Mrs. Knight asked, beaming.

'Well, I'm blest!' He had in truth forgotten that it was his birthday.

'You've been so wrapped up in this Speech Day business, haven't you?'
said Aunt Annie, as if wishful to excuse him to himself for the
extraordinary lapse.

They all luxuriated in his surprise, his exclamations, his blushes of
delight, as he fingered the presents. For several days, as Henry had
made no reference to his approaching anniversary, they had guessed that
he had overlooked it in the exciting preparations for Speech Day, and
they had been anticipating this moment with the dreadful joy of
conspirators. And now they were content. No hitch, no anticlimax had
occurred.

'I know,' said Henry. 'The watch is from father, and you've given me the
chain, mother, and the knife is from Aunt Annie. Is there a thing in it
for pulling stones out of horses' hoofs, auntie?' (Happily, there was.)

'You must make a good breakfast, dear; you've got a big day before you,'
enjoined his mother, when he had thanked them politely, and assumed the
watch and chain, and opened all the blades and other pleasant devices of
the penknife.

'Yes, mother,' he answered obediently.

He always obeyed injunctions to eat well. But it would be unfair to
Henry not to add that he was really a most obedient boy--in short, a
good boy, a nice boy. The strangest thing of all in Henry's case was
that, despite their united and unceasing efforts, his three relatives
had quite failed to spoil him. He was too self-possessed for his years,
too prone to add the fanciful charm of his ideas to no matter what
conversation might be proceeding in his presence; but spoiled he was
not.

The Speech Day which had just dawned marked a memorable point in his
career. According to his mother's private notion, it would be a
demonstration, and a triumphant demonstration, that, though the mills of
God grind slowly, they grind exceeding small. For until that term, of
which the Speech Day was the glittering conclusion, the surpassing
merits and talents of her son had escaped recognition at the Bloomsbury
Middle School. He had never reached the top of a form; he had never
received a prize; he had never earned pedagogic praise more generous
than 'Conduct fair--progress fair.' But now, out of the whole school, he
had won the prize for Good Conduct. And, as if this was not sufficiently
dazzling, he had