“Zero forbids,” said she, with a pretty shiver. “I’ll see them with your eyes, John.”
“Well. And while you were dreaming out this enchanted vision, I must have been snoring forth my recollections of the forests of Maine. Here they are on the next pane by way of pendant and contrast. ‘This is the forest primeval.’ Here are pines in full feather and pines without a rag on their poor bare branches, pines lying on the ground, and pines that fell half-way and were caught in the arms of brother pines. Pines, hemlocks, and the finest arbor-vitæ I ever saw, all crusted with glittering ice and hanging over a mountain lake. I think I like this better than the tropics. Do come, Mrs. Brightly.”
“Zero doubly forbids my going to a colder climate. But it is delightful to be here, warm and comfortable, and listen to your raptures.”
“Mary,” said Brightly, turning to her with a grave and tender manner.
“What, John?”
I find a different picture on the next pane. Do you remember or two dear little ones?”
“Do we remember them?” she asked with tearful eyes.
“God knows we do! And here among these lovely frost-pictures I find a memorial of them. Shall I describe it?”
“Yes, dear John,” said she, by this time weeping abundantly.
“I see a little promontory jutting into a great
