"A peck of March dust is worth a king's ransom," say I slowly next morning, as I stand by the window, trying to see clearly through the dimmed and tearful pane.

"The king would have to do without his ransom to-day." It is raining _mightily_; strong, straight, earnest rain, that harshly lashes the meek earth, that sends angry runlets down the gravel walks, that muddies the gold goblets of the closed crocuses.
"And you without your walk!" says Barbara, lifting her face from her stitching.

"Poor Miss Nancy!" "There is not enough blue sky to make a cat a pair of breeches!" cries Bobby, despondently, and with his usual vulgarity.
Sometimes I am tempted to fear that Bobby is hopelessly ungenteel--ungenteel for life.

He has now taken possession of another window, and is consulting the eastern sky.
"A ransomless king, and a trouserless cat! That is about the state of the case!" say I, turning away from the window with a grin.
After all, now I come to think of it, I am nearly as vulgar as Bobby.
But I am right.

Through the day, through the long, light, cold evening, the posture of the weather changes not.