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.  It’s Saturday.”

“Saturday!  Don’t she know that the water will freeze almost as soon as it touches the ground?  Go and tell her to come in this minute, and not throw another drop on the pavement.”

Nancy withdrew, and I kept on speaking to myself—­

“I never saw such creatures.  No consideration in them!  Washing the pavement on a morning like this!  Little do they care who falls on the ice; or who has a broken arm, or a broken leg.”

Just as I had said this, I heard a crash, and an exclamation without, and hurrying to the window looked forth.  Biddy’s work was done, and well done, for the pavement was one sheet of ice, as hard and smooth as glass, and as slippery as oil.  Prostrate thereon was a grocer’s boy, and just beyond the curb stone, in the gutter, lay the fragments of a jug of molasses.

Stepping back quickly to where the bell rope hung against the wall, I gave it a most determined jerk.  Scarcely had I done this, ere the door of the adjoining room, which was used as a nursery, opened, and Biddy appeared therein.

“Why, Biddy!” I exclaimed, “what possessed you to throw water on the pavement this morning?”