e kitchen door, and went to hang his great blue mittens
behind the stove, he wore a self-satisfied and pacificatory smile.

"There, I don't want to hear no more about the wood-box bein' empty.
We're goin' to have a cold night; the air's full of snow, but 't won't
fall, not till it moderates."

The women glanced at him with a sense of relief. They had looked
forward to his entrance in a not unfamiliar mood of surly silence.
Every time he had thumped down a great armful of wood, it had startled
them afresh, and their timid protest and sense of apprehension had
increased until they were pale and miserable; the younger woman had
been crying.

"Come, mother, what you goin' to get me for supper?" said the master
of the house. "I'm goin' over to the Centre to the selec'men's office
to-night. They're goin' to have a hearin' about that new piece o' road
over in the Dexter neighborhood."

The mother and daughter looked at each other with relief and shame;
perhaps they had mistaken the timber-contractor's errand, after all,
though their imagination had followed truthfully every step of a
bitter bargain, from the windows.

"Poor father!" said his wife, half unconsciously. "Yes; I'll get you
your supper quick 's I can. I forgot about to-night. You'll want
somethin' warm before you ride 'way over to the Centre, certain;" and
she began to bustle about, and to bring things out of the pantry. She
and John Packer had really loved each other when they were young, and
although he had done everything he could since then that might have
made her forget, she always remembered instead; she was always ready
to blame herself, and to find excuse for him. "Do put on your big fur
coat, won't you, John?" she begged eagerly.

"I ain't gone yet," said John, looking again at his daughter, who did
not look at him. It was not quite dark, and she was bending over her
sewing, close to the window. The momentary gleam of hope had faded in
her heart; her father was too pleasant: she hated him for the petty
deceit.

"What are you about there, Lizzie?" he asked gayly. "Why don't you
wait till you have a light? Get one for your mother: she can't see
over there by the table."

Lizzie Packer's ready ears caught a provoking tone in her father's
voice, but she dropped her sewing, and went to get the hand-lamp from
the high mantelpiece. "Have you got a match in your pocket? You know
we're all out; I found the last this mornin' in the best room." She
stood