She finds a letter from her husband. She opens it, still smiling, and she
reads:

"MY DEAR LOVE: I hope you are well, and that you do not regret too
much our beautiful country. For some days last we have had a good
frost, which presages snow. For my part, I adore this weather, and
you my believe that I do not light your damned furnace."

She ceases reading, quite happy at the thought that she had her furnace
put in. Her right hand, which holds the letter, falls slowly on her lap,
while she raises her left hand to her mouth, as if to calm the obstinate
cough which is racking her chest.




SUNDAYS OF A BOURGEOIS

PREPARATIONS FOR THE EXCURSION

M. Patissot, born in Paris, after having failed in his examinations at
the College Henri IV., like many others, had entered the government
service through the influence of one of his aunts, who kept a tobacco
store where the head of one of the departments bought his provisions.

He advanced very slowly, and would, perhaps, have died a fourth-class
clerk without the aid of a kindly Providence, which sometimes watches
over our destiny. He is today fifty-two years old, and it is only at this
age that he is beginning to explore, as a tourist, all that part of
France which lies between the fortifications and the provinces.