“No,” said Lark, “we have better judgment than to go splashing through the wet old snow.—­What’s the matter with you, Carol?  Why don’t you sit still?  Are your feet wet?”

“No, but it’s too hot in this room.  My clothes feel sticky.  May I open the door, Prudence?”

“Mercy, no!  The snow is blowing a hurricane now.  It isn’t very hot in here, Carol.  You’ve been running outdoors in the cold, and that makes it seem hot.  You must peel the potatoes now, twins, it’s time to get supper.  Carol, you run up-stairs and ask papa if he got his feet wet.  Between him and Connie, I do not have a minute’s peace in the winter time!”

“You go, Lark,” said Carol.  “My head aches.”

“Do you want me to rub it?” asked Prudence, as Lark skipped up-stairs for her twin.

“No, it’s just the closeness in here.  It doesn’t ache very bad.  If we don’t have more fresh air, we’ll all get something and die, Prudence.—­I tell you that.  This room is perfectly stuffy.—­I do not want to talk any more.”  And Carol got up from her chair and walked restlessly about the room.

But Carol was sometimes given to moods, and so, without concern, Prudence went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal.

“Papa says his feet are not wet, and that you are a big simpleton, and—­Oh, did you make cinnamon rolls to-day, Prue?  Oh, goody!  Carrie, come on out!  Look,—­she made cinnamon rolls.”

Connie, too, hastened out to the kitchen in her bare feet, and was promptly driven back by the watchful Prudence.

“I just know you are going to be sick, Connie,—­I feel it in my bones.  And walking out in that cold kitchen in your bare feet!  You can just drink some more peppermint tea for that, now.”

“Well, give me a cinnamon roll to go with it,” urged Connie.  “Peppermint is awfully dry, taken by itself.”

Lark hooted gaily at this sentiment, but joined her sister in pleading for cinnamon rolls.

“No, wait until supper is ready.  You do not need to help peel the potatoes to-night, Carol.  Run back where it is warm, and you must not read if your head aches.  You read too much anyhow.  I’ll help Lark with the potatoes.  No, do not take the paper, Carol,—­I said you must not read.”

Then Lark and Prudence, working together, and talking much, prepared the supper for the family.  When they gathered about the table, Prudence looked critically at Connie.

“Are you beginning to feel sick?  Do you feel like sneezing, or any thing?—­Connie’s awfully naughty, papa.  Her feet were just oozing water, and she sat there in her wet shoes and stockings, just like a stupid child.—­Aren’t you going to eat any supper, Carol?  Are you sick?  What is the matter?  Does your head still ache?”

“Oh, it doesn’t ache exactly, but I do not feel hungry.  No, I am not sick, Prudence, so don’t stew about it.  I’m just not hungry.  The meat is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy.  I think I’ll take a cinnamon roll.”  But she only picked it to pieces idly.  Prudence watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother bird.