“Of course. We Americans live in one of the most trying climates in the world, and we add to its rigors by heating our houses like incubators. No room over seventy, ought to be the rule.” “It’s hard to work in a cold room,” said Mr. Clyde. “Not when you’re used to it. The Chicago schools that have started winter roof classes for sickly children, find that the average of learning capacity goes up markedly in the cold, clean air.” “But they can’t be as comfortable,” said Mrs. Clyde. “Much more so. As soon as the children get used to it, they love it, and they object strenuously to going back into the close rooms. The body grasps and assimilates the truth; the mind responds.” “Well, I like to be comfortable as well as anybody,” said Mrs. Sharpless, “but I don’t consider it the chief end of life.” “Not the chief end,” assented Dr. Strong; “the chief means.” “Comfort and health,” mused Mrs. Clyde. “It seems a natural combination.” “The most natural in the world. Let me put it into an allegory. Health is the main line, the broad line, the easy line. It’s the simple line to travel, because comfort keeps pointing it out. Essentially it is the line of the least resistance. The trouble with most of us is we’re always unconsciously taking transfers to the cross-lines. The transfer may be Carelessness, or Slothfulness, or Gluttony, or one of the Dissipations in food, drink, work or play; or it may be even Egotism, which is sometimes a poison: but they all take you to Sick Street. Don’t get a transfer down Sick Street. The road is rough, the scenery dismal, and at the end is the cemetery.” “That’s the end of all roads,” said Grandma Sharpless. “Then in Heaven’s name,” said the Health Master, “let us take the longest and sunniest route and sing as we go!” XI. THE BESIEGED CITY To Bettina falls the credit of setting the match to the train. That lively-minded young lady had possessed herself of a large, red square of cardboard, upon which, in the midst of the Clyde family circle, she wrought mightily with a paint-brush. “What comes after p in ‘diphtheria,’ Charley?” she presently appealed to her next older brother. Charley considered the matter with head aslant. “Another p,” he answered, tactfully postponing the evil moment. “It doesn’t look right,” announced the Cherub, after a moment’s contemplation. “Dr. Strong, how do you spell ‘diphtheria’?” “I? Why, Toots, I spell it with a capital, but leave off the final x,” replied the Health Master cheerfully. “What kind of a game are you playing? Quarantining your dolls?” “It isn’t a game.” Betty could be, on occasion, quite a self-contained young person. “What is it, then, if I’m not prying too far into personal matters?” “It’s for Eula Simms to put on her house.” “The Simmses _will_ be pleased,” remarked Julia.