It was the old lady's birthday. She got up early to be ready for the post. From the second floor of the flat, she could see the postman when he came down the street, and the little boy Johnnie from the ground floor often brought her letters if there was any.
Today she was sure there would be something. Myra wouldn't forget her mother's birthday, even if she seldom wrote to her. Of course Myra was busy. Unluckily, Enid, the daughter the old lady loved most, died two years ago. Since then Myra had come to see her mother three times, but her husband, Harold, had never come.
The old lady was eighty today. She had put on her best dress. Perhaps—perhaps Myra might come. She hadn't seen her for a long time and missed her very much. After all, eighty was a special birthday. Even if Myra did not come, she would send a present. The old lady was sure of that. Her face had lightened up because of happiness. She was excited like a child. She would enjoy her day.
Yesterday Mrs. White, the cleaner, gave the flat an extra cleaning, and today she had brought a card and a bunch of flowers when she came to prepare the breakfast. The little boy, Johnnie, had been up with a packet of candies, and said he wouldn't go out to play until the post came. "I guess you'll get lots and lots of presents," he said.
What would she receive? Maybe a pair of slippers or a new coat. A coat would be lovely. Blue is such a pretty colour. Or a table lamp, a book, a travel book with pictures, or a little clock with clear black numbers. So many lovely things. The old lady was smiling when she thought about this.
Paragraph 1.
She was now standing by the window and watching.
Paragraph 2:
She immediately opened the envelope.
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