should think by your tone that you had just seen the earliest bluebird. I have half a mind to go into a rage with you, John, for being so utterly contented.”
“When you have your first rage, Mary Brightly, I shall have my first discontent. But I cannot scold Zero when I see what a wonderful artist he is. Look at this window. See this magic frost-landscape. It is a beautiful thought that such exquisite fancies are always in the air waiting to be discovered.”
“The chill finds the latent pictures, as sorrow makes poets sing.”
“Well said! We each owe the other one. And what did you dream of last night, Mrs. Brightly?
“Nothing.”
“Yes; you must have dreamed of the tropics, and breathed out palms and vines and tree-ferns in your dreams.”
“As the girl in the fairy-tale dropped pearls and diamonds when she spoke. Perhaps I did. But how did you detect me?”
“Here they are all upon the windows, just as you exhaled them. Here on this pane is a picture, crowded as a photograph of a jungle on the Amazon. Here are long feathery bamboos, drooping palms, stiff palms, and such a beautiful bewilderment of vines and creepers by a river sparkling in the sunshine. And here, hullo! Here is an alligator done in ice, nabbing an iced boa-constrictor. Delicious! Do come and see, Mary!”
