Ted was sitting on the stairs, capped and mittened, his new sled at his feet.
“I thought you’d never come, Father,” he fretted. “Mother says I can’t go out alone.”
“I don’t think he should go out at all,” declared Edith, “but I agreed to leave the decision to you.”
“There’s not enough snow, Ted,” his father told him. “It wouldn’t carry your sled. You’ll have to wait for a heavier snowfall. From the look of those clouds we should get it tonight.”
Ted stared ruefully out the window. “Why is God so stingy? In Albany there won’t be any place to use a sled. Mame said so.”
“There are parks in Albany, Ted,” Edith assured him, “and likely grounds around the capitol building and there is sure to be a hill there somewhere.”
“But it won’t be here! I want to slide here where we live.”
“I saw two flakes of snow falling,” comforted Alice. “I saw them on my muff.”
“Church must have been very short today,” Edith said. “You were only gone an hour.”
Theodore told her about the rector’s being housed with the grippe.