"No," said Lark, "we have better judgment than to go splashing through
the wet old snow.--What's the matter with you, Carol? Why don't you
sit still? Are your feet wet?"

"No, but it's too hot in this room. My clothes feel sticky. May I
open the door, Prudence?"

"Mercy, no! The snow is blowing a hurricane now. It isn't very hot in
here, Carol. You've been running outdoors in the cold, and that makes
it seem hot. You must peel the potatoes now, twins, it's time to get
supper. Carol, you run up-stairs and ask papa if he got his feet wet.
Between him and Connie, I do not have a minute's peace in the winter
time!"

"You go, Lark," said Carol. "My head aches."

"Do you want me to rub it?" asked Prudence, as Lark skipped up-stairs
for her twin.

"No, it's just the closeness in here. It doesn't ache very bad. If we
don't have more fresh air, we'll all get something and die,
Prudence.--I tell you that. This room is perfectly stuffy.--I do not
want to talk any more." And Carol got up from her chair and walked
restlessly about the room.

But Carol was sometimes given to moods, and so, without concern,
Prudence went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

"Papa says his feet are not wet, and that you are a big simpleton,
and--Oh, did you make cinnamon rolls to-day, Prue? Oh, goody! Carrie,