"Yes; are you?"

"What do you suppose they think about us?"

"I'd rather not know."


Georgiana tells me that the birds in unusual numbers are wintering
among the trees, driven to us with the boldness of despair. God and
nature have forgotten them; they have nothing to choose between but
death and man. She has taken my place as their almoner and nightly
renders me an account of what she has done. This winter gives her a
great chance and she adorns it. It seems that never before were so
many redbirds in the cedars; and although one subject is never
mentioned between us, unconsciously she dwells upon these in her talk,
and plainly favors them in her affection for the sake of the past.
There are many stories I could relate to show how simple and beautiful
is this whole aspect of her nature.

A little thing happened to-night.

Towards ten o'clock she brought my hat, overcoat, overshoes, mittens,
comforter.

"Put them on," she said, mysteriously.

She also got ready, separating herself from me by so many clothes that
I could almost have felt myself entitled to a divorce.

It was like day out-of-doors with the moon shining on the snow. We