“My friend Mrs. _Bo_-gardus considers it a stupid form of suicide to economise coal in _such_ weather,” Mrs. Hudson remarked this morning. We had not been economising, but nevertheless we felt crushed; for whenever Mrs. Hudson has a criticism to make it comes under cover of the same potent Name,—perhaps I don’t spell it quite correctly, but _so_ it is invariably pronounced. None of us have ever met Mrs. _Bo_-gardus, none of us ever expect to meet her,—she is a sort of cousin to the famous “Mrs. Harris,” we are sometimes tempted to believe,—but it is through her reported remarks that we are given the coveted, if immensely overestimated, advantage of “seeing ourselves as others see us.” This morning’s none too flattering vision resulted in Haze being sent down to shake up the furnace;—which did not prevent Miss Brown from wearing her pink knitted shawl all day, and sniffing, and rubbing the red tip of her nose. Just why these artless actions should have enraged me I don’t know; but, somehow, they did. As Ernie once sagely remarked,—“However innocent a boarder’s habits, they are bound to be unpleasing.” Then, too, I broke a string of my mandolin, and I have not five cents in the world with which to buy another. It is almost amusing to be as poor as that. Also, Haze is growing cross as well as homely, because it does not agree with him to study late at night. Last evening when I put on my golf-cape and ran up to the workshop for a little chat I found the poor boy sitting in the flying-machine with his overcoat on,—it is _cold_ in the workshop, let me tell you,—pegging away at his Latin. He looked up over his glasses and scowled at me. “Won’t it make you dream worse than ever to sit there, dear?” I asked. “The sails keep the draughts off,” answered Hazard in sepulchral tones. “What are you studying, Haze?” I ventured next. “My lessons,” came the communicative croak. Nice, chummy conversation that! So I retired. But I suppose I may as well be honest and admit that none of the reasons I have mentioned yet have anything to do with making me unhappy. It is about Robin. We ought to take such good care of him,—and we can’t! Thursday he caught cold sitting on the draughty floor; and, as usual, it settled in his little lame side. So mother kept him in bed yesterday morning, and I amused him with games and stories;—but after lunch he grew feverish and tired. “Would you like me to read again, Bobsie?” I asked. “No, thank you, honey,” he answered, and turned his head wearily among the pillows. “Would you like to play ‘Tommy-Come-Tickle-Me,’ or ‘Thumbs Up’?” “No, dear, they aren’t a bit of good when your legs ache. Sing, please.” “What shall I sing?” I asked. “About Heaven,” said Bobsie,—“like we did last Sunday night.” It wasn’t a bit priggish, the way he said it,—just simple, and wistful, and very sweet.