"I don't believe but what I should like to go along,"
said his wife.

"All right. You hain't ever rode behind that mare yet,
Pert, and I want you should see me let her out once.
They say the snow's all packed down already, and the going
is A 1."

At four o'clock in the afternoon, with a cold,
red winter sunset before them, the Colonel and his wife
were driving slowly down Beacon Street in the light,
high-seated cutter, where, as he said, they were a pretty
tight fit. He was holding the mare in till the time
came to speed her, and the mare was springily jolting
over the snow, looking intelligently from side to side,
and cocking this ear and that, while from her nostrils,
her head tossing easily, she blew quick, irregular whiffs
of steam.

"Gay, ain't she?" proudly suggested the Colonel.

"She IS gay," assented his wife.

They met swiftly dashing sleighs, and let them pass
on either hand, down the beautiful avenue narrowing
with an admirably even sky-line in the perspective.
They were not in a hurry. The mare jounced easily along,
and they talked of the different houses on either side
of the way. They had a crude taste in architecture,