"Oh, Edith, child, not so boisterous, please," responded a querulous
voice from a great easy-chair by the glowing grate, and a middle-aged
lady turned a white, faded face toward her daughter.

"Forgive me, mother, but my tramp in the January storm has made me
feel rampantly well. I wish you could go out and take a run every day
as I do. You would then look younger and prettier than your daughters,
as you used to."

The invalid shivered and drew her shawl closer around her,
complaining:

"I think you have brought the whole month of January in with you. You
really must show more consideration, my dear, for if I should take
cold--" and the lady ended with a weary, suggestive sigh.

In fact, Edith had entered the dim heavily-perfumed room like a gust
of wholesome air, her young blood tingling and electric with exercise,
and her heart buoyant with the thought of the surprise and pleasure
she had in store for her mother. But the manner in which she had been
received had already chilled her more than the biting blasts on
Broadway. She therefore opened her bundle and set out the little
baskets before her mother very quietly. The lady glanced at them for a
moment and then said, indifferently:

"It is very good of you to think of me, my dear; they look very
pretty. I am sorry I cannot eat them, but their acid would only
increase my dyspepsia. Those raised in winter must be very sour. Ugh!
the thought of it sets my teeth on edge," and the poor, nervous