"Here is grandmother. Light the fire, Peter. Light the fire, Polly."

Peter and Polly each took a match. Peter lighted the open fire at the left. Polly lighted it at the right side.

Soon the kindling wood began to crackle. Then the flames leaped high in the fireplace.

Grandmother had come over to supper. She was to spend the evening. It was her birthday. Peter and Polly were to stay up later because of this.

The Story Lady was coming to supper, too. Perhaps, just perhaps, she would tell them a story. She knew stories about everything.

"Here she is now," cried Polly. And the Story Lady walked in at the door with grandmother.

Soon supper was ready. Polly had helped mother set the table. She thought that it looked very pretty.

Grandmother's birthday cake was in the center. On it were a dozen small, colored candles. Polly had helped to put them there.

When mother had shown her the candles, she had said, "Why, mother, grandmother is more than twelve years old.

"She must have a candle for every year. That is what I have."

"I know you do, Polly," mother had said. "But grandmother is sixty years old. We cannot put sixty candles on this cake. It is not large enough.

"So we will count the fives in sixty. Then we will use one for every five years. That makes just twelve."

"Yes," Polly had answered, "I have learned that. Twelve fives make sixty. It is a good way to do. I shall do it when I am sixty years old."

Now the cake was on the table. Just before it was time to cut it, father lighted the candles.

They all watched them burn for a few minutes. The melted wax ran down the sides. They grew shorter and shorter.

"See Nan Etticoat," said Polly. "The longer she stands, the shorter she grows. Do you know that story, grandmother?"

"My grandmother taught me to say Nan Etticoat," said grandmother. "That was many years ago. She told me about making candles, too.

"When she was a little girl, there were no electric lights. There were no gas lights. There were no lamps. Every one used candles.

"Not such pretty, colored ones as these. They were larger and quite rough. How should you like to make them, Polly?"

"Oh, I should like to," said Polly. "May we?"

"Perhaps not," said grandmother. "We do not need to do so. We have other lights.

"But in those old days, people made their own candles. They called it 'dipping candles.' It was a hard task.

"I am sure that they did not light many at once. I am sure that my grandmother did not have candles on her birthday cakes.

"Now, my son, the wax is dripping on the frosting. The candles are nearly burned. If you will put them out, I will cut my birthday cake."

Mr. Howe pinched the lighted ends in his fingers. He did this very quickly.

"Don't they burn your fingers, father?" asked Polly.

"No, indeed, Polly. I do not give them time to burn me. This is better than to blow them out. Then there is smoke. But children must not do it this way."

Grandmother took the knife and cut the cake. She cut it as a pie is cut. Each one had a very fat piece.

"Now we shall see if this cake is as good as it looks," said grandmother. "I am sure that it is, for your mother is a good cook, Polly."

But Polly was not listening. She was looking at something that she had found in her cake.

She poked it with her fork. Then she took it up in her fingers.

"Why, mother," she said, "what a queer thing there is in my cake. How did it get there?"

Just then Peter said, "There is a lump in my piece, too. It is something hard."

Father said, "Clean the cake from your lumps and see what they are. Why, I have a lump myself."

"And so have I," said the Story Lady.

"And so have I," said mother.

"Then," said grandmother, "I am the only one who has no lump. How did you let these lumps fall into your cake, daughter? Can I ever again call you a good cook?" And she laughed at Mrs. Howe.

Just then her fork struck something.

"Dear me!" cried grandmother. "A lump in my piece, too! Now I think they must have been put in the cake on purpose."

"Oh, see, see, grandmother! See what mine is!" And Polly held up a little, white china pig.

"Look at mine!" shouted Peter. He had scraped the cake from his lump. In his hand was a small, white china monkey.

"What is yours, Story Lady? And yours, mother? And yours, father?" asked Polly.

"Mine is a cat," said the Story Lady.

"And here is a kitten to go with her," said mother.

"And here is a naughty dog, to chase your cat and kitten," said father. "Let's put them in a row on the table. Then we can all see them."

"But where is your lump, grandmother?" asked Polly.

Grandmother held out her hand. On it, there lay a beautiful, gold thimble.

"Oh! Oh! Isn't it pretty!" cried Polly. "Who gave it to you?"

"Indeed it is, Polly. I think I know who gave it to me. It was you, my daughter. You knew that I had lost mine.

"I thank you for this. And I thank you for another happy birthday party. Perhaps you may put lumps in your cakes, just on birthdays."

"I will not do it at other times," said mother. "Now let us all go into the other room and sit before the open fire."

"When our bedtime comes we need not go, need we, mother?" asked Polly.

"Not to-night, Polly. You and Peter may sit up a while," said mother.