CHAPTER XI.
PAVEMENT WASHING IN WINTER.
TWO weeks of spring-like weather in mid-winter, and then the thermometer went hurrying down towards zero with alarming rapidity.
Evening closed in with a temperature so mild that fires were permitted to expire in the ashes; and morning broke with a cold nor-wester, whistling through every crack and cranny, in a tone that made you shrink and shiver.
"Winter at last," said I, creeping forth from my warm bed, with a very natural feeling of reluctance.
"Time," was the half asleep and half awake response of Mr.Smith, as he drew the clothes about his shoulders, and turned himself over for the enjoyment of his usual half hour morning nap.
It was Saturday--that busiest day in the seven; at least for housekeepers--and as late as half past seven o'clock, yet the house felt as cold as a barn.

I stepped to the register to ascertain if the fire had been made in the heater.

Against my hand came a pressure of air--cold air.
"Too bad!" I murmured fretfully, "that girl has never touched the fire." So I gave the bell a pretty vigorous jerk.

In a few minutes up came Nancy, the cook, in answer to my summons.
"Why hasn't Biddy made the fire in the heater ?" I asked.
"She has made it, mum." "There isn't a particle of heat coming up." "I heard her at work down there.

I guess she's made it up, but it hasn't began to burn good yet." "Tell her that I want her." "She's washing the pavement, mum." "Washing the pavement!" "Yes, mum." "What possessed her to wash the pavement on a day like this ?" "It's the right day, mum.