NO less than three birthdays in our family fell in the next week: first Fee's and Nannie's,—which I suppose I ought really to count as one, as they are twins,—and then Nora's. As these birthdays will always come together, and to avoid hurting people's feelings, as Jack would say, we celebrate them alternately,—Fee's and Nannie's one year, and Nora's the next; and this was Nora's year. We had had several performances lately, so Fee said he'd try to think of something else, if we'd all promise to do just as we were told. Of course we promised; then he and Phil invited the Unsworths and Helen Vassah and that boy across the way,—I didn't want him, but all the others did, so he was asked. Hope was at her grandma's, so she couldn't come; but Murray and Helen did, and, of course, Hilliard.

The birthday fell on a Friday, and as papa is always at home on that evening, we were afraid he wouldn't allow us to celebrate it; but to our great joy he told Nannie to tell us that we might have all the fun we wanted, as long as we behaved ourselves and kept the doors closed, so the noise would not escape. So right after school hours Phil and Felix took possession of the schoolroom, and after having got us to give them all our presents for Nora, they locked themselves in. "We're going to have a bang-up entertainment, now, you'll see," Felix said, just before he closed the door,—"something unique, unprecedented, etc.; and no one is to put even a nose into the banqueting hall"—with a wave of his hand over his shoulder—"until the doors are thrown open and the music strikes up. Now remember—"

"Yes, and no snooping or hanging around either!" put in Phil, standing on tip-toe to rest his chin on Fee's crown and glare at us. Then the door was locked.

Such a hammering and dragging about of furniture you never heard; and when every now and then Phil would come out for something or other, Fee would open the door very cautiously, as if afraid somebody'd see something, and shut and lock it with a bang when he re-entered. As you may imagine, our curiosity was excited to the highest pitch to know what we were going to have. Then just before dinner Jack came running in, in a great state of excitement; he had been to rehearsal, and had done so well in the piece he had to sing that Mr. Hawkins had really engaged him, at fifty cents a week, with the promise of more as he improved. Jack was almost wild with delight. "Isn't it fine! Isn't it just jolly! You should have heard me sing; really, it didn't sound bad!" he exclaimed about twenty times; and the knowing looks and nudges and winks that he bestowed on me couldn't be counted. No amount of snubbing could repress him.

It seemed to us as if dinner would never be over; but at last it came to an end, and Jack and I and the younger children flew upstairs and stood waiting for the signal to enter the "banqueting hall." In a few minutes more up came Nora, with Helen and Murray and Hilliard. I was sure Murray and Helen would enjoy the "festive occasion," for they like the things that we do; but I didn't know how that boy would take it. He was very smiling, however; and I heard him tell Nora, as he presented her with a lovely bunch of roses, that it was "very kind of her to allow him to be of the party." Just then the schoolroom doors were thrown open, and the strains of the wedding march from Lohengrin floated sweetly out to us from violin and piano. At the same moment Phil appeared with a paper flower in his buttonhole, and arranged us in couples,—Nora and he going first,—and so we marched into the schoolroom.

I think perhaps I ought to describe the schoolroom to you, for it is playroom, sitting-room, schoolroom, and everything to us. It's on the top floor,—so that our noise sha'n't disturb papa,—and takes in the whole width of the house and half its length, making an immense room. There are some back rooms on this floor, and the large open space on each side of the stairs is what we call the attic. Though almost everything in it is old and shabby, we do have royal times in the schoolroom, for it is our own, and out of study hours we can do there as we please. Here are Phil's banjo and his boxing-gloves, and a lot of what nurse calls his "rubbish"; Fee's easel is in this corner, and a couple of forlorn, dirty old plaster casts which—unless he has a painting-fit on him—generally serve as hat-rests for Phil and himself. Pictures in various stages of completion stand about. Here, too, are Nannie's and Fee's violins, resting against a pile of old music that Max gave them before he went away. In the next corner, the other side of the low, deep-silled windows, hangs Nora's china-shelf, on which are ranged what the boys call her Lares and Penates,—vases and pretty cups and saucers that have been given to her. Here, too, are her plants, conspicuous among which is a graceful fan-leaved palm, known in the family as Lady Jane.

These are the front corners; and between the windows stand our book-shelves,—they are in a clumsy, unsteady old case, that rocks from side to side if you touch it, and is only held together by the wall against which it leans. The shelves are rather short,—now and then a shelf slips off its notches and spills our library,—and they are so narrow that books constantly fall down behind, and lie there until house-cleaning or a sudden desire for one of those volumes brings them all to light, and they are restored to their places.

One of the other—back—corners is mine; and here I have my "gymnasium,"—my Indian clubs and dumb-bells; here, too, are my tennis racket (I love to play!) and two old walking-canes with which (when I can get him to do it) Jack and I fence,—dear me! I wonder if I shall have to give that up too, now that I have given that promise to Nannie! Then comes our sofa: it's an old-fashioned, chintz-covered affair, with a high back and high arms that stick straight out at each end, and it's dreadfully shabby now; but all the same there isn't one of us—except, perhaps, Nora—that would be willing to exchange it for the handsomest piece of furniture that could be offered us. The times we've played house and shipwreck, and gone journeys on it, and romped and pranced all over it, can't be counted! This is Jack's favourite place to sit and read; and under it, concealed from public view by the deep chintz flounce that runs around the front and sides of the sofa, are stored his treasures,—his books and stamp album, a queer-looking boat that he has been building for ages, and a toy steam engine with which he is always experimenting, but which, so far, absolutely refuses to "go."

I have frequently offered to share my corner with Jack, and I couldn't understand why he always refused, until one day I accidentally over-heard him speaking about it to Nannie.

"You see, Nannie, Betty means well," he said, "but she does hit out so with those clubs! I'd be sure to get hurt some time or other; and then, besides, she'd just own my things more than I would myself." Of course this last part isn't really so, for he hasn't a thing that I'd care for; but still he sticks to the sofa.

Kathie and the twins and Alan have the other corner with their doll's house, a tail-less hobby horse, known both as the "palfrey" and the "charger," and blocks and toys without number. We've a piano in the schoolroom for practising, and in the middle of the floor is a large table, round which we sit in and out of school hours. This table has no cover; it is liberally besprinkled with ink stains, and adorned in many places with our initials, and with circles done in red ink,—goals for feather-top playing,—and pieces have been hacked out of the edges, trying the sharpness of sundry new knives. The old table is not at all ornamental, but we couldn't get on without it, and we older ones have quite an affection for our old Jumbo. Some pictures—three or four of them by Felix—are hung up on the walls. And now you know how our schoolroom looks.

But a grand transformation had taken place: all our stage property had been utilised; the pictures were draped with red, white, and blue paper muslin; the "statuary" and plants were arranged about the room with an eye to a fine effect; great bunches of paper flowers bloomed in every available place,—even on the gas fixtures! The large table was too heavy to be pushed aside, but it was covered with Murray Unsworth's big flag, which gave it quite a festive appearance; while the smaller table over in the corner, though partially concealed by the dining-room screen, gave tempting glimpses of "refreshments." Nannie was at the piano, and beside her was Fee, playing away on his violin with all his might.

At the farther end of the room, on a dais, was Miss Marston's chair, covered with red paper muslin, and here, after we had promenaded several times round the room, Phil seated Nora, announcing her the "Queen of the Revels," which so struck Jack's fancy that he gave his hand a little upward jerk, and shouted, "Hurray for we!" And then, though of course we oughtn't to have done it, being for ourselves, you know, we every one joined in a "three times three" hurrah! Kathie and the little ones got so excited that they fairly yelled, and we had some difficulty in quieting them.

When order was restored, Phil and Felix brought from the closet a large clothes-basket, piled full of neatly tied-up parcels of all sizes, which they placed beside Nora. Fee then made a sign to Phil. "Begin!" he whispered. Phil struck an attitude, with his hand on his heart, and began, "Fair Queen!" then stopped, looked astonished, put his hand to his forehead, gazed at the floor and the ceiling, then burst out with:—

"That isn't what you were to say, you goose!" exclaimed Felix, wrathfully. "That isn't your speech!"

"Don't talk to me about your old set speeches, when a man can rise to an occasion like that!" remarked Phil, loftily, straightening up and throwing back the lapels of his coat with a great air. "Poetry!—d'ye mind that, Mr. Wegge? The genuine article, and at a moment's notice! At last I've struck my vocation."

Of course we laughed uproariously; we were in the mood for it, and would have laughed if some one had held up a finger at us.

Felix then made his speech, expressing our love and wishes for many, many (I believe there were six manys) happy returns of Nora's birthday, and he began to hand her her presents, reading out the inscription on each as he did so, she opening them. The first was "Nora, with love and birthday wishes from Max," and when the wrapper was off, it proved to be a lovely print of Von Bodenhauser's Madonna. Max had given Nannie a picture on her birthday, and Nora was delighted to get one as well. Next came smaller gifts from Helen Vassah, Jack, Felix, and Nannie, and then Felix fished up a large, rather bulky parcel, the inscription on which he read very distinctly: "Dearest Nora, with love from the 'Twinsies,'"—that's the name we give to Felix and Nannie to distinguish them from the younger twins.

"Why!" exclaimed Nora, in surprise, as she took the parcel on her lap, "you have both already given me something, you dear, generous creatures; I'm afraid you've been extravagant. And so nicely done up, too; thank you, thank you very much!" and she kissed them warmly.

"Oh, that's all right; don't speak of it," said Felix, modestly, while Nannie began wonderingly, "Why, I didn't—"

"Ought to be something very fine," hastily interrupted Phil, "four wrappers!" The next minute there was a shout of laughter from us all as, after carefully unfolding the last paper, Nora drew out nurse's work-basket, piled high with innumerable pairs of our stockings and socks which were waiting to be darned!

I expected Nora would have been provoked, but she only laughed as heartily as the rest of us. It was a fortunate thing she was in such a good humour, for three more times the boys played that joke on her before the basket was emptied. One was her own choicest cup and saucer, "with love from papa;" the next, the drawing-room feather-duster, "a token of appreciation from the family,"—Nora hates to dust! and the third, an unfinished sketch which she began months ago, and which was for Phil when completed; this was "from her affectionate brother, Philip." And they were so cleverly sandwiched in between the real birthday gifts that Nora got caught each time, to our great enjoyment.

After this we had games, and refreshments were served early on account of the little ones. As soon as they had said good-night we played more games, and then the boys began to get noisy; that's the worst with boys,—at least our boys,—just as soon as they begin to enjoy themselves, it seems as if they must make a noise and get rough. Ever since Nannie and I had that talk, I've been trying my best to act like a young lady, and this evening I was particularly on my good behaviour; but, oh, it was tiresome! and I could see that the boys didn't know what to make of it,—Murray Unsworth asked if I didn't feel well, and Fee looked very quizzically at me, though I pretended I didn't see him. I was so afraid he'd say something right before that boy!

Well, as it happened, all my pains went for nothing,—and just through Fee's nonsense. Murray and I were looking at Phil's boxing-gloves,—Phil was out of the room,—and as we talked, I slipped on one of the gloves, when Felix came up behind me and took hold of my arm. "That's Phil opening the door," he said quickly; "let's play a joke on him." And before I had the least idea of what he was going to do, Fee had raised my arm and given the person who was entering such a whack on the shoulder with the boxing-glove as whirled him completely round, so that he got in the way of another person who was behind him, and nearly knocked him over. In a moment more we saw that the two persons were papa and a stranger,—a young man!

There was an instant's awful pause, broken by a nervous little giggle from Jack at the sight of Phil—behind papa—with his hands clasped, his knees bent as if in abject terror, and his eyes rolled up to the ceiling. Then, settling his glasses—which had been nearly knocked off—straight on his nose, papa looked around at us and asked, "Is this the way you welcome your guests, Nora?" adding, to me, "Take off that glove, Betty!"

I got awfully red, I know; but before I could say anything Felix stepped forward and explained, and Nora advanced with a smile, saying, "We are very glad to see you, papa."

Then papa introduced the young man, and who should he be but Max's ward, "the great Shad," or, to give him his proper name, Chadwick Whitcombe! He had expected to meet Max at our house, and had waited some time downstairs for him; then, as the evening wore on and Max did not appear, papa had thought it best to himself bring him up and introduce him to us.

Of course we all looked at him,—and the more so that he isn't at all like what we had any of us expected. In the first place, though Max says he's just nineteen, he acts as if he were years older than that, and altogether he is different to any of the boys we've ever known. He's not quite so tall as Fee, though he wears very high heels on his boots; and his features are so delicate, his complexion so pink and white, that in spite of a tiny moustache, which he's very fond of caressing, he looks a great deal more like a girl than a boy. His hair is as yellow as MÄdel's; it's wavy like a girl's, and he wears it long and parted in the middle; and his eyes are large and very blue,—Phil says they are "languishing," and he and Felix have given him another nick-name of "Lydia Languish." He wore evening clothes, with a white flower in his buttonhole, and there were diamond studs in the bosom of his shirt, and a diamond ring on one of his fingers. When papa introduced him, he put his heels together and made us three very low and graceful bows, saying, in a voice just like a girl's, and with a smile that showed his white teeth, "I am very happy to—aw—meet you!"

After looking at the presents, which, minus the jokes, were ranged on a table, and saying a few words, papa went away. I have an idea that he noticed the difference between this delicate Dresden-china young man and our own fun-loving boys, and rather dreaded leaving the stranger to our devices; for at the door he laid his hand on Phil's shoulder and said, "Remember, no more jokes to-night, Phil." And with a look of injured innocence that almost upset Felix and me, Phil answered, "Why, no, sir, certainly not."

We were rather quiet at first after papa went away; then Phil nudged Nannie, with the whisper: "Go talk to him; I don't know what to say to such a dude;" while Felix chimed in, in the same low voice, "Ask him if he puts his hair up in papers, nights,—or get Betty to ask him."

But I edged away quickly, and joined Murray and Helen at the other side of the room. I was determined I would get into no more mischief.

But they needn't have troubled themselves,—Chad didn't seem one bit embarrassed: he just drew a chair to Nora's side and began talking to her as easily as if he had known her all his life; and in a little while Nannie got the boys over to the piano and singing songs with rousing choruses, which they always enjoy. I think she did it this time, though, to divert their attention from the new-comer, for they were just ready to bubble over at the way he talked; even Hilliard's sleepy eyes were twinkling with sly merriment.

When Chad talks he is, as Murray puts it, "too awfully English, you know, for anything," though he was born and has lived most of his life in America; and he pronounces his words in the most affected way. Altogether, he is awfully affected; you should see the air with which he flirts his handkerchief out of his pocket, his mincing steps, and the bored, you-can't-teach-me-anything expression of his face.

"I've—aw—really been very busy since my return," he told Nora, in that high-pitched, affected voice of his. "I've—aw—moved into bachelor quarters, and been—aw—having my apartments decorated and furnished. Have my own ideahs, you know, and—aw—'m having 'em carried out—all in blue—effect will be—aw—really very fine. I've—aw—brought back pictures and bric-À-brac and—aw—curios of all descriptions, and now—aw—'ll turn 'em to good account. Awful job, you know—expect to work like a slave—these—aw—so-called decorators over here have such abominable taste! but the effect will be unique—of that—aw—'m sure."

"Why, aren't you going to school—I mean college?" Phil turned round in the middle of a chorus to ask bluntly.

"I—aw—have no intention of it," answered Chad, lounging off in his chair and stroking his baby moustache.

"Oh, I see: your education's finished," said Phil, with that innocent expression on his face that we know means mischief; but before he could say another word, Helen Vassah cried out, "Oh, Phil, here's our favourite duet; you must sing it with me," and Nannie struck up an unusually loud accompaniment.

Before the evening was over, we made up our minds that Chad was the silliest, most conceited creature; he did nothing but talk of himself and his possessions, and in the most lordly way imaginable. No matter what subject was introduced, he'd go right back to the one thing that seemed to interest him,—himself. He lounged back in his chair and made not the slightest effort to join in the entertainment. In fact, Nora was the only person he honoured with any notice; and while we all think him very unmannerly, she—would you believe it!—likes him.

Coming over later in the evening to the corner of the room where Helen, Fee, Jack and I were, she said to Helen, "Isn't he nice? Did you see the way he offered me his arm to the piano? so polite, and different from the generality of boys,—don't you think so?"

"Yes," Helen said, with a smile, "he is quite unlike any of the boys we know; who does he look like, Nora? We all see a likeness, but can't think to whom."

"Oh, I know, I've got it, I know," cried Jack, excitedly; "he looks (except that he hasn't got on knee-breeches and lace ruffles) just like that picture Max gave you, Felix,—don't you remember?—with a lace handkerchief in one hand and a snuff-box in the other. Oh, you know,—the French Marquis—"

"You're right, Jack,—so it is; he does look like 'Monsieur le Marquis,'" Nora said, glancing at Chad. "He has an aristocratic face,—'Monsieur le Marquis.'"

"Monsieur le Donkey would be a more suitable name," exclaimed Fee, while Helen, Jack, and I laughed. "If you'd seen how absurd he looked when he clicked his heels together and offered you his arm, you would know mine is the title that best suits him. I declare I'll make a sketch of you both from memory; it was too rich to be lost." Catching up a blank book, he began to sketch rapidly. Nora turned away, laughing; but we three remained, looking over Fee's shoulder, criticising and offering suggestions, until it was finished. Here is the sketch: it's pretty good of Nora, but of course it's a caricature of Chad.

About a quarter to ten the "party" broke up. Chad was the first to go; as he rose to say good-night, I heard Nannie whisper to Phil: "Phil, you'll have to see him out. Fee can't go all the way downstairs and then up again,—it's too much for him,—and Jack is too young; anyway, it is your place as the eldest."

"Little snob!" said Phil, savagely. "I'd like to take him down by way of the banisters,—just give him one shove, and let him fly."

"He is a snob," admitted Nannie, "but he is also Max's ward, and that entitles him to some consideration from us; and remember, too, what Max said,—that he has knocked about the world ever since he was a little fellow: that would account for much. You know, Phil, we've had our home and one another and dear mamma; and besides, you wouldn't want to spoil Nonie's birthday. Do treat him civilly! will you?"

"Well, I'll try," Phil answered, making a wry face; "but if he begins any of his 'aw—aw,' on the way down, I'll not answer for the consequences."

Bending low over Nora's hand, Chad murmured something of which we only heard "Chawming evening—pleasure of meeting you—Max again," then, bowing twice to the rest of the company, he took his departure.

"I've enjoyed myself immensely," Hilliard said, as he bade good-night; then he added to me, "I never knew before how interesting a large family could be,—you have such fun among yourselves; and I think it is so kind of you all to let me come over and share your good times." Then Murray and Helen made their adieux, and all went away together.

Phil came racing back to the schoolroom after seeing them out. "Well," he said breathlessly, taking a seat on the edge of the big table, "well, everything went off all right; quite a success, wasn't it? barring the great Shad,—he was no addition to our party. I'm awfully sorry he's such a cad; for Max's sake I'd have liked to be nice to him."

"You are hard on him, Phil," Nora said. "He may be a little conceited, but I think he's not at all a bad fellow; now see if you don't like him better after you get to know him."

"Not at all a bad fellow!" repeated Felix, sharply. "Well, you may think so, but I don't. I agree with Phil,—he is a cad! Did you see the expression of his face as he looked around our shabby old schoolroom, and took in the simple birthday refreshments? he didn't even take the trouble to hide his contempt for our poverty and childishness. You may think that's like a gentleman, but I do not."

"He wouldn't touch the cake, and only took a glass of water," I volunteered at this point.

"You here?" cried Nora, wheeling round on me, "and Jack? It's high time you two were in bed." Then she went on: "Our appetites are equal to anything; but not everybody dotes on home-made cookies and tough sponge cake. I found Max's ward a very polite young gentleman, a pleasant change from the rough, unmannerly boys one usually has to put up with. Betty and Jack, are you going to bed, or not? Why don't you speak to them, Nannie?"

"Don't be cross to them," whispered Nannie to her; "it's your birthday, you know. Come, Betty; come, Jack, let's go off together. I'm tired and sleepy, too."

Rather unwillingly we bade good-night and went downstairs with Nannie. As the schoolroom door closed behind us, I heard Felix say, with a sharp insistence unusual to him, and bringing his hand down on the table to emphasise his words, "I don't like that fellow! I don't like him, and I wish he hadn't come here!"

X.