“How lovely the air is this morning,� cried Tibby one day in early January as she stepped from the door of Mark’s home and looked across the farm-lit plains to the brightening glory of the winter sun in a sky of cloud-fleeced blue. The low-lying ridge of hills skirting the eastern horizon gave the effect of a mural and fortress-crowned landscape, and Tibby’s eyes glowed with pleasure as she gazed about her.
“You should not brave, bare-headed, even the winter’s mildness,� said Donald, who had come over early to bring a message from Lissa.
“Since when were you called Dr. Bartram?� asked Tibby mockingly.
“I was only prescribing the ounce of prevention,� returned Donald.
“O, the cure comes later, I suspect.�
“I am afraid it will have to, for one so careless as you are inclined to be.�
“This is a lovely day for a ride. I am going to ride Tempest over to Anna Falkner’s,� Tibby continued, ignoring his remark.
“Better not go so far. This bright morning is a weather breeder. I can feel snow in the air.�
“Mr. Bartram, the role of mentor does not become you.�
“Think not? How am I as a weather prophet?�