sweet country flowers besides—those I brought from her little garden are all dead now."

Betty's heart feels lighter than it has for some days past, and she runs downstairs quite briskly.

How eagerly she listens for the postman's knock as she helps Clara prepare the breakfast! "Ah, he's in the street now—I can hear his 'rat-tats'—they're coming nearer. Now he's next door——"

Alas, for poor Betty! The next knock is at the house on the other side.

She darts upstairs. No, there is no letter on the door-mat; there is no letter coming to her at all! Grannie has forgotten the day. Betty could cry with disappointment and vexation.

But this is only the beginning.

Jennie, Pollie, and Harry never remember any birthdays save their own—she had expected nothing from them. But Lucy and Bob, it is hard indeed that they should take no notice of this all-important day which makes her just fifteen years old.

Worse still, Bob is in a thoroughly bad humour; and Lucy, having fallen asleep after Betty awakened her this morning, is ashamed of herself, and eats her breakfast in silence.

Not a word does Betty say to remind them. She is longing intensely for a birthday greeting, but nothing would make her confess it.

"I shouldn't have forgotten their birthdays," she thinks bitterly. "I thought they didn't really care much about me, and this proves it."

"You needn't look at me like that!" cries Bob sharply. "I shan't wash my hands any oftener for you, Miss Particular, in spite of all your naggings!" and he snatches up his cap, and clatters out of the room, banging the door after him.

Soon after father comes in for his breakfast. Betty looks up eagerly. Alas! he also has forgotten.

After this, mother's forgetfulness is not surprising. She, too, takes her breakfast almost in silence, and disappears into the kitchen rather earlier than usual.

Betty's heart is very sore as she sets about her morning work. Her head aches, and she feels tired all over. She has just tidied the fireplace when mother enters.

"The kitchen-range is smoking again, Betty. I'm not going to have any more of it, so I've sent Clara for the sweep."

Betty is horrified. "Why, mother, there's no dinner cooked—not even a bit of pudding!"

"Well, we'll have to make do with this fire—it can't be helped."

This is too much. Betty knows what "having the sweep in" means.

"Why couldn't you wait until to-morrow?" she breaks out angrily. "It's too bad—that it is! Isn't everything horrid enough already without this?"

And she covers her face with her hands, and bursts into a passion of tears.

"Why, Betty—Betty, for goodness' sake, don't—what can be the matter?"

"It's my birthday!" cries Betty, "and you've all forgotten—and I did think things would be better to-day, and now they'll be worse than ever!"

"Your birthday, child? So it is, I declare! Well, I can't think how I came to forget it! If I'd thought now, I would have tidied up a bit—but there's so much to do in this house—just no end to it, and yet there's no peace, and everything in a muddle——"

"It's all because no one wants things to be better!" sobs Betty.

"If you mean me, Betty, let me tell you you've no right to speak like that to your mother——"

"I mean everybody! I just hate everything, everything!" cries Betty, stamping her foot, and sobbing so wildly that Mrs. Langdale is alarmed.

She forgets her own grievance directly, in true motherly anxiety.

"Come, come, Betty, don't give way like this; you've been working too hard, my dear; keeping too close to the house. Clara and I will manage the sweep; just put on your hat, and go for a walk."

"I can't, my head aches dreadfully," sobs Betty.

"Then you must lie down a bit. Come, come, you'll make yourself quite ill."

Betty's head is aching so badly now that she can scarcely think. Presently, lying on her bed, she grows calmer.

What a dreadful failure she has made of it all! She has fought and struggled all the week, only to meet defeat at the end. What would Grannie say? How rudely she spoke to mother just now—Grannie wouldn't approve of that.

"But I couldn't help it, and I can't do anything to make things better, or the house nicer. The harder I try, the worse it all gets. I don't see any way out of it at all, but earning my own living, and letting them all go on as they like. I wonder what Grannie would say to such a plan? Well, I can't ask her, she's too far away; and, Oh, dear, dear, she's forgotten my birthday!"

Worn out with crying and pain, presently Betty falls asleep.

When she has slept for about an hour, a loud "rat-tat" at the street door awakens her. She jumps up. The postman! Of course, she had forgotten the twelve o'clock post. She flies downstairs, still dizzy with sleep. Mother and Clara have not heard the knock, they are busy in the kitchen.

A letter and a parcel. Betty almost snatches them from the postman's hands, and scans them eagerly.

Yes, it is Grannie's well-known hand-writing. How could she think dear Grannie would forget her!

Betty hurries upstairs with her treasures. "A book—Grannie has sent me a book—that's just like Grannie; she knows I like reading better than anything."

She strips off the brown paper with eager fingers. The book looks quite delightful; it is prettily bound, and nicely illustrated. Betty turns over the leaves rapidly, and her eyes fall on a picture that attracts her attention directly.

By the open door of a rose-clad cottage stands a little maiden. She wears the quaint close cap and quilted petticoat of the olden time, and is eagerly looking at something which the dear old dame in front of her holds tightly clasped beneath the fingers of her right hand.

Somehow, the cottage reminds Betty of Grannie's cottage. The old dame is certainly rather like Grannie, and the girl is, Oh, just about her own age!

Did Grannie send the book because she also saw the resemblance?

"I must find out," thinks Betty. "Mother doesn't want me—she said so—and my head still aches."

So she lies down again, and begins to read, "The Talking-Bird: A Wonder-Tale."

"It's a real lovely story; I can see that. I was rather afraid that a book from Grannie might be rather dry—she's so very good."

Poor Betty! She has a great deal to learn yet, that is evident. Really good people are not dull; books that are good and true can certainly never be "dry." Betty wants to be good, she wants to walk in the Narrow Way, and follow her Saviour faithfully; but it all seems such uphill work; doing one's duty is such a tiresome, wearisome business; trying to be good is such a dull, uninteresting affair.

Her heart is still cold, you see; the fire of the Holy Spirit has not yet warmed it into loving life.

So Betty begins to read. The rose-clad cottage looks sweet enough, but Betty soon finds that there is very little sweetness in the maiden's life. Poor Gerda's lot is a hard one. She is always at work. She must spin, and bake, and milk cows; yet her stepmother never seems pleased with her.

Gerda's two brothers are out all day cutting wood in the great pine forests, but though she knits them warm stockings, and tries her best to cook them nice suppers, they never give her a smile, or a kiss, or a loving word. And Gerda says to herself:—

"It does not matter how I work, or what I do, I can never please anybody at all."

Betty pauses a moment. "How very like my experience!" she thinks.