"And the shirt too!" he said; "all this looks well."
An icy blast blew through the pane and entered the room. The external fog penetrated it, and dilated like a white wadding pulled open by invisible fingers. The snow could be seen falling through the broken pane, and the cold promised by the Candlemas sun had really arrived. The father took a look around him, as if to make sure that he had forgotten nothing, then he fetched an old shovel and strewed the ashes over the wet logs so as to conceal them entirely. Then getting up and leaning against the chimney-piece, he said,—
"Now we can receive the philanthropist."
[CHAPTER VIII.]
A SUNBEAM IN THE GARRET.
The elder girl walked up to her father and laid her hand in his.
"Just feel how cold I am!" she said.
"Stuff!" the father answered; "I am much colder than that."
The mother cried impetuously,—