y his wife that distinguishes so many righteous men, and
is shared by the Man of Wrath, who persists in holding his glass in
his left hand at meals, because if he did not (and I don't believe he
particularly likes doing it) his relations might say that marriage
has improved him, and thus drive the iron into his soul. This habit
occasions an almost daily argument between one or other of the babies
and myself.

"April, hold your glass in your right hand."

"But papa doesn't."

"When you are as old as papa you can do as you like."

Which was embellished only yesterday by Minora adding impressively, "And
only think how strange it would look if everybody held their glasses
so."

April was greatly struck by the force of this proposition.

January 28th.--It is very cold,--fifteen degrees of frost Reaumur, but
perfectly delicious, still, bright weather, and one feels jolly and
energetic and amiably disposed towards everybody. The two young ladies
are still here, but the air is so buoyant that even they don't weigh on
me any longer, and besides, they have both announced their approaching
departure, so that after all I shall get my whitewashing done in peace,
and the house will have on its clean pinafore in time to welcome the
spring.

Minora has painted my portrait, and is going to present it as a parting
gift to the Man of Wrath; and the fact that I let her do it, and sat
meekly times innumerable, proves conclusively, I hope, that I am not
vain. When Irais first saw it she laughed till she cried, and at once
commissioned her to paint hers, so that she may take it away with her
and give it to her husband on his birthday, which happens to be early in
February. Indeed, if it were not for this birthday, I really think she
would have forgotten to go at all; but birthdays are great and solemn
festivals with us, never allowed to slip by unnoticed, and always
celebrated in the presence of a sympathetic crowd of relations (gathered
from far and near to tell you how well you are wearing, and that nobody
would ever dream, and that really it is wonderful), who stand round
a sort of sacrificial altar, on which your years are offered up as
a burnt-offering to the gods in the shape of lighted pink and white
candles, stuck in a very large, flat, jammy cake. The cake with its
candles is the chief feature, and on the table round it lie the gifts
each person present is more or less bound to give. As my birthday
falls in the winter I ge