TALES FOR CHRISTMAS EVE

“LET us get a map and see what places look pleasantest?” says she. “As for that,” reply I, “on a map most places look equally pleasant.” “Never mind; get one!” I obey. “Do you like the seaside?” asks Elizabeth, lifting her little brown head and her small happy white face from the English sea-coast[36] along which, her forefinger is slowly travelling. “Since you ask me, distinctly no,” reply I, for once venturing to have a decided opinion of my own, which during the last few weeks of imbecility I can be hardly said to have had. “I broke my last wooden spade five and twenty years ago. I have but a poor opinion of cockles—sandy red-nosed things, are not they? and the air always makes me bilious.” “Then we certainly will not go there,” says Elizabeth, laughing. “A bilious bridegroom! alliterative but horrible! None of our friends show the least eagerness to lend us their country house.” “Oh that God would put it into the hearts of men to take their wives straight home, as their fathers did,” say I, with a cross groan