"I'm cold," whined the boy.

"So am I, awful cold, but you know that coal must do till pa comes."

"I'd like to know when that will be. Any other pa would be home such a freezing night as this. I hate my pa."

"Johnnie, Johnnie, you must not talk that way. He is your father, child."

The voice came from the bed and was marked by that peculiar tone noticeable when persons extremely cold try to speak without chattering.

"I can't help it, mother. I'm cold, so cold, and I'm hungry, too. I only had half a potato, and Maggie says they're all gone."

"Poor child!" said the mother with a sigh. "Here, Maggie, give him this," and she drew from under the pillow a small potato which she held toward the girl.

But the girl did not stir until the hungry boy made a move in the direction of the bed. This movement aroused her as his overdose of coal had roused his other watchful sister a moment previous.

"No! No! Johnnie. Do not take it. Our mother will starve. She has not eaten anything for two days."

"Let him have it, Maggie. I cannot eat it. Perhaps your father will come soon and bring some tea. I think a good cup of tea would make me better."

"And, mother," said Cora, "we will take the money we were going to spend for shoes and get a bit of flannel for you and the baby. You must have it or you will freeze. Surely father will come soon. He said he would."

"Nearly everyone has gone home now. Hardly a person passes," Cora observed, with her nose pressed against the frosty pane.

"That is because it is so cold. It is not late yet. We will wait a little longer, and then Maggie€"€""

"O, mother! Do not ask me to go. It is so cold, and suppose€"suppose I had to go into a saloon again. It nearly kills me to go about such places."

"You might meet him, Maggie, and keep him from going in."

"If my pa don't come tonight, he's a big liar, that's all!" broke in Johnnie, hotly.

His mother did not answer him. She was watching the face bent low over the tiny baby. She noted the careworn look and the nervous pressure of the hand held over the tiny one to keep it warm.

Presently the girl lifted her eyes to her mother. Those tender pleading eyes of the mother would have melted a harder heart than hers. She went to the bed and put the baby in, close to its mother's side. Then she threw her arms around the haggard woman's neck and kissed her passionately.

"Dear mother," she said, "I would do anything for you. I will go for father, and before it gets any later."

"Pray, child! Pray every breath you draw! Pray every step you take that you may find him before it is too late. If you do not€"I cannot imagine what is to become of us. Pray! God is not cruel. Surely he will hear us in our misery."

Would you see the drunkard's daughter dressed for a walk this bitter night? A frail, slender girl, who should have been warmly clad, she is dressed in thinnest, shabby cotton, through which the elements will play as through rags of gauze, while the flesh of her feet, unprotected by her almost soleless shoes, will press against the sleet. The two faded pink roses that flap forlornly on the side of her coarse straw hat bear a silent suggestion of pathos€"a faint remembrance, perhaps, of the days of departed happiness.