his neck, laid her dear, fair head on his breast, and peered up archly into his stern visage.  Spite of himself, he could not keep the fixed lines on his face from breaking confusedly into a faint smile.  Somehow or other, his hands came from behind him, and rested on her head.  There!  That’s all.  Dr. Renton surrendered at discretion!  One of the solid men of Boston was taken after a desperate struggle,—­internal, of course,—­for he kissed her, and said, “Dear little Netty!” and so she was.

The phantom watched her with a smile, and wavered and brightened as if about to glide to her; but it grew still, and remained.

“Pa in the sulks to-night?” she asked, in the most winning, playful, silvery voice.

“Pa’s a fool,” he answered in his deep chest-tones, with a vexed good-humor; “and you know it.”

“What’s the matter with pa?  What makes him be a great bear?  Papa-sy, dear,” she continued, stroking his face with her little hands, and patting him, very much as Beauty might have patted the Beast after she fell in love with him; or as if he were a great baby.  In fact, he began to look then as if he were.

“Matter?  Oh! everything’s the matter, little Netty.  The world goes round too fast.  My boots pinch.  Somebody stole my umbrella last year.  And I’ve got a headache.”  He concluded this fanciful abstract of his grievances by putting his arms around her, and kissing her again.  Then he sat down in the easy-chair, and took her fondly on his knee.

“Pa’s got a headache!  It is t-o-o bad, so it is,” she continued in the same soothing, winning way, caressing his brow with her tiny hands.  “It’s a horrid shame, so it is!  P-o-o-r pa.  Where does it ache, papa-sy, dear?  In the forehead?  Cerebrum or cerebellum, papa-sy?  Occiput or sinciput, deary?”

“Bah! you little quiz,” he replied, laughing and pinching her cheek, “none of your nonsense!  And what are you dressed up in this way for, to-night?  Silks, and laces, and essences, and what not!  Where are you going, fairy?”

“Going out with mother for the evening, Dr. Renton,” she replied briskly; “Mrs. Larrabee’s party, papa-sy.  Christmas eve, you know.  And what are you going to give me for a present, to-morrow, pa-sy?”

“To-morrow will tell, little Netty.”

“Good!  And what are you going to give me, so that I can make my presents, Beary?”

“Ugh!” But he growled it in fun, and had a pocket-book out from his breast-pocket directly after.  Fives—­tens—­twenties—­fifties—­all crisp, and nice, and new bank-notes.

“Will that be enough, Netty?” He held up a twenty.  The smiling face nodded assent, and the bright eyes twinkled.

“No, it won’t.  But that will,” he continued, giving her a fifty.

“Fifty dollars, Globe Bank, Boston!” exclaimed Netty, making great eyes at him.  “But we must take all we can get, pa-sy; mustn’t we?  It’s too much, though.  Thank you all the same, pa-sy, nevertheless.”  And she kissed him, and put the bill in a little bit of a portemonnaie with a gay laugh.