The Little Colonels Hero | Page 3

to see; Walker had failed to roll the tennis-court and put up the
net, so she could not even practise serving the balls by herself.
When lunch-time came, it was so lonely eating by herself in the big
dining-room, that she hurried through the meal as quickly as possible,
and tiptoed up the stairs to the door of her mother's room. Mom Beck
raised her finger with a warning "Sh!" and seeing that her mother was
still asleep, Lloyd stole away to her own room, her own pretty pink and
white nest, and curled herself up among the cushions in a big easy chair
by the window.
It was the first time in her memory that her mother had been ill. For
more than a week she had not been able to leave her room, and the
lonely child, accustomed to being with her constantly, crept around the
house like a little stray kitten. The place scarcely seemed like home,
and the days were endless. Some unusual feeling of sensitiveness had
kept her from reminding the family of her birthday. Other years she had
openly counted the days, for weeks beforehand, and announced the
gifts that she would be most pleased to receive.
Here by the window the dismal crow thoughts began flocking down to
her again, and to drive them away she picked up a book from the table
and began to read. It was a green and gold volume of short stories, one
that she had read many times before, but she never grew tired of them.
The one she liked best was "Marguerite's Wonder-ball," and she turned

to that first, because it was the story of a happy birthday. Marguerite
was a little German girl, learning to knit, and to help her in her task her
family wound for her a mammoth ball of yarn, as full of surprise
packages as a plum cake is of plums. Day by day, as her patient
knitting unwound the yarn, some gift dropped out into her lap. They
were simple things, nearly all of them. A knife, a ribbon, a thimble, a
pencil, and here and there a bonbon, but they were magnified by the
charm of the surprise, and they turned the tedious task into a pleasant
pastime. Not until her birthday was the knitting finished, and as she
took the last stitches a little velvet-covered jewel-box fell out. In the
jewel-box was a string of pearls that had belonged to Marguerite's
great-great-grandmother. It was a precious family heirloom, and
although Marguerite could not wear the necklace until she was old
enough to go to her first great court ball, it made her very proud and
happy to think that, of all the grandchildren in the family, she had been
chosen as the one to wear her great-great-grandmother's name that
means pearl, and had inherited on that account the beautiful Von
Behren necklace.
When the knitting was done there was a charming birthday feast in her
honour. They crowned her with flowers, and every one, even the
dignified old grandfather, did her bidding until nightfall, because it was
her day, and she was its queen.
Closing the book Lloyd lay back among the cushions, smiling for the
twentieth time over Marguerite's happiness, and planning the beautiful
wonder-ball she herself would like to have, if wonder-balls were to be
had for the wishing. It should be as big as a cart-wheel, and the first gift
to be unwound should be a tiny ring set with an emerald, because that
is the lucky stone for people born in May. She already owned so many
books, and trinkets, that she hardly knew what else to wish for unless it
might be a coral fan chain and a mother-of-pearl manicure set. But deep
down in the heart of the ball she would like to find a wishing-nut, that
would grant her wishes like an Aladdin's lamp whenever it was rubbed.
She must have fallen asleep in the midst of her day-dreaming, for it
seemed to her that it was only a minute after she closed her book, that

she heard the half-past five o'clock train whistling at the station, and
while she was still rubbing her eyes she saw her father coming up the
avenue.
All day she had had a lingering hope that he might bring her something
when he came out from the city. "If it's nothing but a bag of peanuts,"
she thought, "it will be better than having a birthday go by without
anything, 'specially when all the othahs have been neahly as nice as
Christmas."
She peeped out between the curtains, scanning him eagerly as he came
toward the house, but there was no package in either hand, and no
suggestive parcel bulged from any of his pockets.
"I'll not