Polly felt a change in the atmosphere, but merely thought Tom was tired, so she graciously dismissed him with a stick of cinnamon, as she had nothing else just then to lay upon the shrine.

"Fan's got the books and maps you wanted.

Go and rest now.

I 'm much obliged; here 's your wages, Bridget." "Good luck to your messes," answered Tom, as he walked away meditatively crunching his cinnamon, and looking as if he did not find it as spicy as usual.

He got his books, but did not read them; for, shutting himself up in the little room called "Tom's den," he just sat down and brooded.
When he came down to breakfast the next morning, he was greeted with a general "Happy birthday, Tom!" and at his place lay gifts from every member of the family; not as costly as formerly, perhaps, but infinitely dearer, as tokens of the love that had outlived the change, and only grown the warmer for the test of misfortune.