ped the irritation
of temper naturally resulting from ten days experience of the fog
which has been clinging with suffocating affection to earth and sea,
putting an end to outdoor sport and indoor comfort, taking the curl
out of hair, the starch out of dresses, the sweetness out of
dispositions, and hanging like a pall over all efforts at jollity.

Irritation shows itself differently in each individual of our
community. As is the temperament, so is the temper.

Master Jimmy Anstice, aged twelve, spends his time in beating a tattoo
on the sofa-legs with the backs of his heels. His father says: "Stop
that!" at regular intervals with much sharpness of manner; but lacks
the persistent vitality to enforce his command.

My nephew, Ben Bradford, permanently a resident of Oldburyport, and
temporarily of Cambridge, sits in a grandfather's chair in the corner,
"Civil Government" in his lap, and "Good-Bye, Sweetheart," in his
hand. Even this profound work cannot wholly absorb his attention; for
he fidgets, and looks up every few minutes as if he expected the
sunshine to walk in, and feared that he might miss its first
appearance.

I, for occupation, have betaken myself to writing in this diary,
having caught myself cheating at solitaire,--a deed I scorn when I am
at my best.

Doctor Cricket, his hands nervously clasped behind him, has been
walking up and down the room, now overlooking my game and
remonstrating against the liberties I was taking with the cards (as if
I had not a right to cheat myself if I like!) and then flying off to
peer through his gold-bowed spectacles at the hygrometer, which will
not budge, though he thrusts out his chin-whisker at it for the
fortieth time.

"The weather is in a nasty, chilly sweat," he says grumpily; "if it
were my patient, I would roll it in a blanket, and put it to bed with
ten grains of quinine."

"Not being your patient, and not being dosed with quinine, it may be
better to-morrow," Ben retorts saucily.

Ordinarily, the Doctor takes Ben's sallies with good-humored contempt.
To-day, he is in other mood. He smiles--always a bad sign with him, as
the natural expression of his truly benignant mood is a fierce little
terrier-like frown.

"My poor boy!" he says sympathetically. "The brain is going fast, I
observe. Steep a love-story, and apply it over the affected part!"

I see Ben wrestling with a retort; but before he has it to his mind,
something happens. The door opens and a