The Solitary Summer

"Keep it out in the sun as much as you can," I said; "this is the very weather to turn weak babies into strong ones." "Oh, I am so afraid it will catch cold if I take it out," she cried, her face buried in what was once a pocket-handkerchief. "When was it out last?" "Oh--" she stopped to blow her nose, very violently, and, as it seemed to me, with superfluous thoroughness. I waited till she had done, and then repeated my question. "Oh--" a fresh burst of tears, and renewed exhaustive nose-blowing. I began to suspect that my question, put casually, was of more importance than I had thought, and repeated it once more. "I--can't t-take it out," she sobbed, "I know it--it would die." "But has it not been out at all, then?" She shook her head. "Not once since it was born? Six months ago?" She shook her head. "Poor baby!" I exclaimed; and indeed from my heart I pitied the little thing, perishing in a heap of feathers, in one close room, with four people absorbing what air there was. "I am afraid," I said, "that if it does not soon get some fresh air it will not live. I wonder what would happen to my children if I kept them in one hot room day and night for six months. You see how they are out all day, and how well they are." "They are so strong," she said, with a doleful sniff, "that they can stand it."