"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 few salt tears from falling; and for a moment Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, would the Lord not hear her, after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her sick. There was more to do that; the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back upon her road till she neared the shop of Mme. Auguste; then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps.
She did not remain there two seconds. Mme. Auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold. As instantly two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy and her brow with cologne water, and chafed her hands. She had lain Nettie on the floor of the inner room and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.
"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?"
"I don't know," said Nettie, scarce over her breath.