XVII. 



"SEASONABLE WEATHER." 



There is a silent eloquence about the proceedings of 

 one's servant on a frosty morning peculiarly abominable 

 in its plainness. He thinks you are not awake, perhaps ; 

 but you are, and can tell by the cautious manner in 

 which he moves about the room, fearful of disturbing 

 you, that things meteorological are just about as bad as 

 they can be. In his hand he bears your boots and 

 breeches ; but these emblems of the chase he does not 

 put by your bedside ready for use. On the contrary, he 

 silently opens a drawer, takes out a pair of trousers, and 

 then you know, if you had not known before, which way 

 the wind blows — north-east, in all probability. 



" Frost, eh ? " you ask, having noted these prepara- 

 tions with dismay. 



" Yes, sir. Freezing hard. Came on to snow in the 

 night, and dreadful slippery, sir, this morning," he 

 answers. 



In desperation you remark, interrogatively, "No 

 hunting, I suppose ? " 



" Oh, dear, no ! Looks as if frost was setting in, sir." 



So it apparently is. The landscape is white, and that 



