The trees and hedges were black and hard against the white horizon that was tightly stretched like the paper of a Japanese screen.

The smell of burning wood was in the air, and once and again a rook slowly swung its wheel, cutting the air as it flew.

The cold was so pleasantly sharp that it was the best possible thing for Uncle Mathew, who was accustomed to an atmosphere of hissing gas, unwashen glasses, and rinds of cheese.
Maggie did not answer his question but herself asked one.
"Uncle Mathew, do you believe in religion ?" "Religion, my dear ?" answered her uncle, greatly startled at so unusual a question.

"What sort of religion ?" "The kind of religion that father preached about every Sunday--the Christian religion." "To tell you the truth, my dear," he answered confidentially, "I've never had much time to think about it.

With some men, you see, it's part of their lives, and with others--well, it isn't.