"Come where?" said Mr. Mathieson, but half understanding her.
"Come home to tea, father. I came to ask you. Mother has made something you like."
"I'm busy, child. Go home. I'm going to supper at Jackson's. Go home."
He turned to his hammering again. But Nettie stood still in the snow and waited.
"Father," she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low.
"What! ain't you gone?" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson.
"Father," said Nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you; and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful, and just ready to bake. Won't 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!"