the morning, and close to the stream, so that we
might wash our plates among the flags. Sometimes, when in the mood for
society, we would invite the remaining babies to tea and entertain them
with wild strawberries on plates of horse-chestnut leaves; but no one
less innocent and easily pleased than a baby would be permitted to
darken the effulgence of our sunny cottage--indeed, I don't suppose that
anybody wiser would care to come. Wise people want so many things
before they can even begin to enjoy themselves, and I feel perpetually
apologetic when with them, for only being able to offer them that
which I love best myself--apologetic, and ashamed of being so easily
contented.

The other day at a dinner party in the nearest town (it took us the
whole afternoon to get there) the women after dinner were curious to
know how I had endured the winter, cut off from everybody and snowed up
sometimes for weeks.

"Ah, these husbands!" sighed an ample lady, lugubriously shaking her
head; "they shut up their wives because it suits them, and don't care
what their sufferings are."

Then the others sighed and shook their heads too, for the ample lady
was a great local potentate, and one began to tell how another dreadful
husband had brought his young wife into the country and had kept her
there, concealing her beauty and accomplishments from the public in a
most cruel manner, and how, after spending a certain number of years in
alternately weeping and producing progeny, she had quite lately run away
with somebody unspeakable--I think it was the footman, or the baker, or
some one of that sort.

"But I am quite happy," I began, as soon as I could put in a word.

"Ah, a good little wife, making the best of it," and the female
potentate patted my hand, but continued gloomily to shake her head.

"You cannot possibly be happy in the winter entirely alone," asserted
another lady, the wife of a high military authority and not accustomed
to be contradicted.

"But I am."

"But how can you possibly be at your age? No, it is not possible."

"But I _am_."

"Your husband ought to bring you to town in the winter."

"But I don't want to be brought to town."

"And not let you waste your best years buried." "But I like being
buried."

"Such solitude is not right."

"But I'm not solitary."

"And can come to no good." She was getting quite angry.

There was a chorus of No Indeeds at her last remark, and renewed shaking
of heads.