"REALLY, I can hardly believe that it's winter at all," declared Mrs. Tremaine, languidly, as she threw open her deck coat. "I find it hard" "Now, my dear, don't try to do anything hard. It's sure to fatigue you," laughed Henry Tremaine, coming up from the cabin companionway, where he had paused long enough to light a pipe. "But here it is," argued Mr. Tremaine's pretty young wife, "well into the month of December. We are out at sea, out of sight of land, save for a few of these horrid keys. There's hardly any breeze; the sun is warm-so warm, in fact, that I am afraid it will work ravages with my complexion. And, actually, the air is so warm and so full of indolence that I feel more inclined to go below and sleep than to do anything else." Though Mrs. Tremaine was not more than twenty-four years of age, her husband was a middle-aged man who had seen many more nooks of the world than she had. "My dear," he answered, "you are just beginning to experience the charm of the Florida winter."