of the first month, we tried to sub-let it, characterised it as "poky."
In our letters we traversed this definition. In our hearts we agreed
with it.

At first, however, its size--or, rather, its lack of size--was one of its
chief charms in Ethelbertha's eyes. The fact that if you got out of bed
carelessly you were certain to knock your head against the ceiling, and
that it was utterly impossible for any man to put on his trousers except
in the saloon, she regarded as a capital joke.

That she herself had to take a looking-glass and go upon the roof to do
her back hair, she thought less amusing.

Amenda accepted her new surroundings with her usual philosophic
indifference. On being informed that what she had mistaken for a linen-
press was her bedroom, she remarked that there was one advantage about
it, and that was, that she could not tumble out of bed, seeing there was
nowhere to tumble; and, on being shown the kitchen, she observed that she
should like it for two things--one was that she could sit in the middle
and reach everything without getting up; the other, that nobody else
could come into the apartment while she was there.

"You see, Amenda," explained Ethelbertha apologetically, "we shall really
live outside."

"Yes, mum," answered Amenda, "I should say that would be the best place
to do it."

If only we could have lived more outside, the life might have been
pleasant enough, but the weather rendered it impossible, six days out of