warmth of the fire as long as possible. Far from devising ways of
letting _in_ the air, we tried hard to keep it _out_ by stuffing the
cracks with cotton, and closely curtaining the windows and bed. Even
then, the ice in the wash-basin, and the electricity which made our
hair literally stand on end in the process of combing, and the gradual
transformation of fingers into thumbs, showed but too plainly that the
wintry air had penetrated our defences. When we crowded joyfully round
a crackling, sparkling wood-fire, even while our faces glowed with the
intense heat, cold shivers were creeping down our backs, and sudden
draughts from an opening door set our teeth chattering. I often wished
myself on a spit, to revolve slowly before the fire until thoroughly
roasted. Not from any want of air, I assure you, we children were
always breaking panes of glass on the bitterest days, and the glazier
was never known to come under a week to replace them. Why people
should wish to revive, and live through again, the miseries of such a
frost-nipped childhood, I cannot imagine.

I, for one, love a snug house, even a warm house. I am of a chilly
temperament, and subject to rheumatism, horrible colds, &c. Fresh air
is my bane. I banish all books on the subject from my table. I
studiously avoid all notorious fresh-air lovers, or try in every way
to bring over the poor, misguided mortals to my views; but it is of no
use. Fresh air is the fashion, and is run to extremes, as all fashions
must be. I call in a physician; lo! _fresh air_ is recommended as a
tonic. I give a party; of course my windows are all thrown open, and
foolish young girls, in the thinnest of white muslins, are standing in
the draught; and such a whirlwind is raised by the flirting of fans,
and the rush of the dancers, that I am blown, like a dry leaf, into a
corner, where I stand shivering, and making rueful attempts to appear
smiling and hospitable. I go out to pass a social afternoon with a