It is a glorious climate, Miss Rexford; it is a glorious country.

The depressions and fears that grow up with one's life in the Old World fall away from one in this wonderful air, with the stimulus of a new world and a strong young nation all around.

This snow is not cold; it is warm.

In this garden of yours it is just now acting as a blanket for the germs of flowers that could not live through an English winter, but will live here, and next summer will astonish you with their richness.

Nor is it cold for _you_; it is dry as dust; you can walk over it in moccasins, and not be damp: and it has covered away all the decay of autumn, conserving for you in the air such pure oxygen that it will be like new life in your veins, causing you to laugh at the frost." "I have not your enthusiasm," she replied.