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. "Well done, I declare!" he said, smilingly. "But you're going to the party?" "Pretty soon, pa." He made no answer; but sat smiling at her. The phantom watched them, silently. "What made pa so cross and grim, to-night? Tell Netty—do," she pleaded. "Oh! because;—everything went wrong with me, to-day. There." And he looked as sulky, at that moment, as he ever did in his life. "No, no, pa-sy; that won't do. I want the particulars," continued Netty, shaking her head, smilingly. "Particulars! Well, then, Miss Nathalie Renton," he began, with mock gravity, "your professional father is losing some of his oldest patients. Everybody is in ruinous
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