‘You will catch your death of cold,’ says Susan sleepily; but in spite of this protest, or, rather, in despite of it, she, too, jumps out of her cosy nest and hurries to the window. ‘Oh, what a morning!’ breathes she. And, indeed, the world seems all afire to-day. The sun is glittering upon the snow, and the snow is casting back at it lights scarcely less brilliant. All the trees and shrubs are gaily decked with snowy wraps and armlets, whilst here and there, through the universal white, big branches of holly-berries, scarlet as blood, peep out. ‘Ouf! Yes; but it’s cold,’ says Betty, after a moment or two. ‘I told you you would catch cold,’ says Susan, turning upon her indignantly, though in reality she stands quite as big a chance of meeting the dread foe as Betty. ‘I’ll catch you instead!’ cries Betty, with full intent. Whereon ensues a combat that might have given the gods pause—a most spirited hunt, that takes them round and round the small bedroom a dozen times or more. It is a regular chase; over the bed, and past the wardrobe, and behind the dressing-table—it was a near shave for Susan that last, and full of complication, but she gets out of it with the loss of only one small china ornament, the very least concession that could be made to the god of battle. And now away again! Over the bed once more, and round a chair, deftly directed at the enemy’s toes, and——After all, the very bravest of us can sometimes know defeat, and Susan is at last run to earth between a basket-chair and a trunk. * * * * * After this they condescend to dress—both a little exhausted, and Betty, I regret to say, jibbing at her bath. ‘If it was hot I’d say nothing,’ says she. ‘When I’m married I’ll have a hot bath in December.’ ‘Who’d marry you?’ says Susan, and then, like the immortal parrot, is sorry that she spoke. Showers of icy water descend upon her! But now breakfast is ready, and they must hasten down, with a last look out of their favourite window at the golden colouring there. ‘I suppose it’s almost warm where Bonnie is,’ says Betty, after a slight pause. ‘I hope so. Yes; I think so.’ There is, however, doubt in Susan’s tone. It seems impossible to believe any place warm with that snow-burdened garden outside. ‘It must be warm,’ says Betty. ‘Bonnie could not stand cold like this, and the last accounts were not bad’—this rather doubtfully. ‘No. But’—Susan’s face, that had been glowing, now loses something of its warmth—‘not good, either. Still——Betty’—she looks at her sister—‘don’t you think Mr. Crosby is a man one might depend upon?’ ‘Oh, I do—I do indeed!’ says Betty. ‘He’—earnestly, and with a view to please Susan—‘is so ugly that anyone might depend upon him.’ ‘Ugly! He certainly is not ugly,’ says Susan. ‘I must say, Betty, I think sometimes you make the most foolish remarks.’