DEATH.
Christmas eve, and Beth was home for her two weeks' holidays. It was just after tea, and she and her father thought the parlor decidedly cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles flaming among the holly over the mantel-piece. It seemed all the cosier because of the storm that raged without. The sleet was beating against the pane, and the wind came howling across the fields. Beth parted the curtains once, and peeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and circling round.
"Dear! such a storm! I am glad you're not out to-night, daddy."
Beth came back to the fire-side, and passed her father a plate of fruit-cake she had made herself.
"It's too fresh to be good, but you mustn't find any fault. Just eat every bit of it down. Oh, Kitty, stop!"
They had been cracking walnuts on the hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kitten was amusing itself by scattering the shells over the carpet.
Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's feet.
"You look well after your fall's work, Beth; hard study doesn't seem to hurt you."
"I believe it agrees with me, father."
"Did you see much of Arthur while you were in Toronto, Beth? I was hoping you would bring him home for the Christmas holidays."