"Yes," said I, with an attempt to appear facetious and unconcerned,
"but it would be all well enough if we could take that snow-ball to
the fire and melt it down."

"But there never is any fire where there are snow-balls," said
Euphemia.

"No," said I, "and that's just the trouble."

It was on the following Thursday, when I came home in the evening,
that Euphemia met me with a glowing face. It rather surprised me
to see her look so happy, for she had been very quiet and
preoccupied for the first part of the week. So much so, indeed,
that I had thought of ordering smaller roasts for a week or two,
and taking her to a Thomas Concert with the money saved. But this
evening she looked as if she did not need Thomas's orchestra.

"What makes you so bright, my dear?" said I, when I had greeted
her. "Has anything jolly happened?"

"No," said she; "nothing yet, but I am going to make a fire to melt
snow-balls."

Of course I was very anxious to know how she was going to do it,
but she would not tell me. It was a plan that she intended to keep
to herself until she saw how it worked. I did not press her,
because she had so few secrets, and I did not hear anything about
this plan until it had been carried out.