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"
"And it was happy?" he asked tenderly. "Just as happy as you wanted it to
be?"
"So happy that I hate to see it go. It was--just right."
"Weren't any of the others happy, dear?"--he was stroking her hair,
thinking that it too had caught little touches of the fire-light.
"None of the others were perfect. Of course, last year was our first one
together, and"--a shudder ran through her.
"I know, dear," he hastened; "I know that wasn't a perfect day."
"Before that," she went on, after a minute of looking a long way into the
fire, "something always happened. My birthday seemed ill-fated. That was
why I wanted a happy one so much--to make up for all the others. This day
began right by the work going so splendidly. Is there anything much more
satisfying than the feeling which comes at the close of a good day's
work? It puts you on such good terms with yourself, convinces you that
you have a perfect right to be alive. Then this afternoon I read some
things which I had read long ago and didn't understand then as I do now.


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