ey are light and
beautiful and just ready to bake. Wont you come and have them with us?
Mother says they'll be very nice."

"Why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled Barry,--"when we
weren't going to punch and oysters? That's a better game!"

If Mathieson had not been drinking he might have been touched by the
sight of Nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked,
trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood on which the
snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. She
looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and
perhaps Mr. Mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt
it only to be vexed and irritated; and Barry's suggestion fell into
ready ground.

"I tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "What are you doing here? I
tell you I'm _not_ coming home--I'm engaged to supper to-night, and I'm
not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. Go home!"

Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the
agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey, if her father had
been quite himself; in his present condition she thought perhaps the
next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial.
She waited an instant and again said softly and pleadingly, "Father,
I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,--all ready."

"Cinnamon and sugar"--he cursed with a great oath; and turning gave
Nettie a violent push from him, that was half a blow. "Go home!" he
repeated--"go home! and mind your business; and don't take it upon you
to mind mine."

Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers
that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. Nobody saw her. Mr.
Mathieson had not looked after giving her the push, and Barry had gone
over to help somebody who called him. Nettie felt dizzy and sick; but
she picked herself up, and wet and downhearted took the road home again.
She was sadly downhearted. Her little bit of a castle in the air had
tumbled all to pieces; and what was more, it had broken down upon her. A
hope, faint indeed, but a hope, had kept her up through all her
exertions that day; she felt very feeble, now the hope was gone; and
that her father should have laid a rough hand on her, hurt her sorely.
It hurt her bitterly; he had never done so before; and the cause why he
came to do it now, rather made it more sorrowful than less so to
Nettie's mind.

She could not help a