"O day of rest and gladness!O day of joy and light!O balm of care and sadness,Most beautiful, most bright!On thee the high and lowly,Through ages join'd in tune,Sing, Holy, Holy, Holy,To the great God Triune."
NETTIE'S GARRET."I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."—Psalmxxiii. 4.
NETTIE'S GARRET."I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."—Psalmxxiii. 4.
N
ettie's attic grew to be a very pleasant place to her. She never heard the least sound of rats; and it was so nicely out of the way. Barry never came up there, and there she could not even hear the voices of her father and Mr. Lumber. She had a tired time of it down stairs.
The first afternoon was a good specimen of the way things went on. Nettie's mornings were always spent at school; Mrs. Mathieson would have that, as she said, whether she could get on without Nettie or no. From the time Nettie got home till she went to bed she was as busy as she could be. There was so much bread to make and so much beef and pork to boil, and so much washing of pots and kettles; and at meal-times there was often cakes to fry, besides all the other preparations. Mr. Mathieson seemed to have made up his mind that his lodger's rent should all go to the table and be eaten up immediately; but the difficulty was to make as much as he expected of it in that line; for now he brought none of his own earnings home, and Mrs. Mathieson had more than a sad guess where they went. By degrees he came to be very little at home in the evenings, and he carried off Barry with him. Nettie saw her mother burdened with a great outward and inward care at once, and stood in the breach all she could. She worked to the extent of her strength, and beyond it, in the endless getting and clearing away of meals; and watching every chance, when the men were out of the way, she would coax her mother to sit down and read a chapter in her Testament.
"It will rest you so, mother," Nettie would say; "and I will make the bread just as soon as I get the dishes done. Do let me! I like to do it."
Sometimes Mrs. Mathieson could not be persuaded; sometimes she would yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with the Testament, and look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could she find rest or comfort any more.
"It don't signify, child," said she, one afternoon when Nettie had been urging her to sit down and read. "I haven't the heart to do anything. We're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go."
"Oh no, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think we are."
"I am sure of it. I see it coming every day. Every day it is a little worse; and Barry is going along with your father; and they are destroying me among them, body and soul too."
"No, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think that. I have prayed the Lord Jesus, and you know He has promised to hear prayer; and I know we are not going to ruin."
"Youare not, child, I believe; but you are the only one of us that isn't. I wish I was dead, to be out of my misery!"
"Sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. Do, mother! It will be an hour or more yet to supper, and I'll get it ready. You sit down and read, and I'll make the shortcakes. Do, mother! and you'll feel better."
It was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but Mrs. Mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her Testament; and Nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance over to the open book in her mother's hand, and the weary, stony face that was bent over it. Nettie had not said how her own back was aching, and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. But cakes and table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and Nettie stole up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder—leaned a little heavily.
"Don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered.
"No. It don't seem to me as I've got any feeling left," said Mrs. Mathieson.
It was the fourth chapter of John at which they were both looking.
"Don't it comfort you to read of Jesus being wearied?" Nettie went on, her head lying on her mother's shoulder.
"Why should it, child?"
"I like to read it," said Nettie. "Then I know He knows how I feel sometimes."
"God knows everything, Nettie."
With that Mrs. Mathieson cast down her book and burst into such a passion of weeping that Nettie was frightened. It was like the breaking up of an icy winter. She flung her apron over her head and sobbed aloud; till, hearing the steps of the men upon the staircase, she rushed off to Barry's room, and presently got quiet, for she came out to supper as if nothing had happened.
From that time there was a gentler mood upon her mother; Nettie saw, though she looked weary and careworn as ever, there was now not often the hard, dogged look which had been wont to be there for months past. Nettie had no difficulty to get her to read the Testament; and of all things, what she liked was to get a quiet hour of an evening alone with Nettie, and hear her sing hymns. But both Nettie and she had a great deal, as Mrs. Mathieson said, "to put up with."
As weeks went on, the father of the family was more and more out at nights, and less and less agreeable when he was at home. He and his friend Lumber helped each other in mischief. The lodger's rent and board had been at first given for the household daily expenses; but then Mr. Mathieson began to pay over a smaller sum, saying that it was all that was due; and Mrs. Mathieson began to suspect that the rest had been paid away already for brandy. Then Mr. Mathieson told her to trade at Jackson's on account, and he would settle the bill. Mrs. Mathieson held off from this as long as it was possible. She and Nettie did their very best to make the little that was given them go a good way: they wasted not a crumb nor a penny. By degrees it came to be very customary for Mrs. Mathieson and Nettie to make their meal of porridge and bread, after all the more savoury food had been devoured by the others; and many a weary patch and darn filled the night hours because they had not money to buy a cheap dress or two. Nettie bore it very patiently. Mrs. Mathieson was sometimes impatient.
"This won't last me through the week, to get the things you want," she said one Saturday to her husband, when he gave her what he said was Lumber's payment to him.
"You'll have to make it last," said he gruffly.
"Will you tell me how I'm going to do that? Here isn't more than half what you gave me at first."
"Send to Jackson's for what you want!" he roared at her; "didn't I tell you so? and don't come bothering me with your noise."
"When will you pay Jackson?"
"I'll pay you first!" he said, with an oath, and very violently. It was a ruder word than he had ever said to her before, and Mrs. Mathieson was staggered for a moment by it; but there was another word she was determined to say.
"May do what you like to me," she said, doggedly; "but I should think you would see for yourself that Nettie has too much to get on with. She is getting just as thin and pale as she can be."
"That's just your fool's nonsense!" said Mr. Mathieson; but he spoke it more quietly. Nettie just then entered the room.
"Here, Nettie, what ails you? Come here. Let's look at you. Ain't you as strong as ever you was? Here's your mother says you're getting puny."
Nettie's smile and answer were so placid and untroubled, and the little colour that rose in her cheeks at her father's question made her look so fresh and well, that he was quieted. He drew her within his arms, for his gentle, dutiful little daughter had a place in his respect and affection both, though he did not often show it very broadly; but now he kissed her.
"There!" said he; "don't you go to growing thin and weak without telling me, for I don't like such doings. You tell me when you want anything." But with that Mr. Mathieson got up and went off out of the house; and Nettie had small chance to tell him if she wanted anything. However, this little word and kiss were a great comfort and pleasure to her. It was the last she had from him in a good while.
Nettie, however, was not working for praise or kisses, and very little of either she got. Generally her father was rough, imperious, impatient, speaking fast enough if anything went wrong, but very sparing in expressions of pleasure. Sometimes a blessing did come upon her from the very depth of Mrs. Mathieson's heart, and went straight to Nettie's; but it was for another blessing she laboured, and prayed, and waited.
As the summer passed away, it began to grow cold, too, up in her garret. Nettie had never thought of that. As long as the summer sun warmed the roof well in the day, and only the soft summer wind played in and out of her window at night, it was all very well, and Nettie thought her sleeping-chamber was the best in the whole house, for it was nearest the sky. But August departed with its sunny days, and September grew cool in the evening; and October brought still sunny days, it is true, but the nights had a clear sharp frost in them; and Nettie was obliged to cover herself up warm in bed and look at the moonlight and the stars as she could see them through the little square opening left by the shutter. The stars looked very lovely to Nettie, when they peeped at her so in her bed out of their high heaven; and she was very content.
Then came November; and the winds began to come into the garret, not only through the open window, but through every crack between two boards. The whole garret was filled with the winds, Nettie thought. It was hard work managing then. Shutting the shutter would bar out the stars, but not the wind, she found; and to keep from being quite chilled through at her times of prayer, morning and evening, Nettie used to take the blanket and coverlets from the bed, and wrap herself in them. It was all she could do. Still, she forgot the inconveniences; and her little garret chamber seemed to Nettie very near heaven, as well as near the sky.
But all this way of life did not make her grow strong or rosy; and though Nettie never told her father that she wanted anything, her mother's heart measured the times when it ought to be told.
THE BROWN CLOAK IN NOVEMBER."How long, O Lord?"—Rev.vi. 10.
THE BROWN CLOAK IN NOVEMBER."How long, O Lord?"—Rev.vi. 10.
N
ovember days drew toward an end; December was near. One afternoon Mrs. Mathieson, wanting Nettie, went to the foot of the garret stairs to call her.
"Yes, mother. Coming."
"Fetch down your school cloak, child."
She went back to her room, and presently Nettie came in with the cloak, looking placid as usual, but very pale.
"Somebody's got to go to Mr. Jackson's, but you ain't fit, child; you ate next to nothing at noon. You can't live on porridge."
"I like it, mother; but I wasn't hungry. What's wanting from Jackson's?"
Nettie put on her cloak, and took her basket, and went out. It was after sundown already, and a keen wind swept through the village street, and swept through Nettie's brown cloak too, tight as she wrapt it about her. But though she was cold and blue, and the wind seemed to go throughheras well as the cloak, Nettie was thinking of something else. She knew that her mother had eaten a very scanty, poor sort of dinner, as well as herself, and thatsheoften looked pale and wan; and Nettie was almost ready to wish she had not given the last penny of her shilling on Sunday to the missionary-box.
"What do you want?" said Mr. Jackson, rather curtly, when Nettie's turn came to be served, and she had told her errand. "What!" he exclaimed, "seven pounds of meal, and a pound of butter, and two pounds of sugar! Well, you tell your father that I should like to have my bill settled; it's all drawn up, you see, and I don't like to open a new account till it's all square."
He turned away immediately to another customer, and Nettie felt she had got her answer. She stood a moment, very disappointed, and a little mortified, and somewhat downhearted. What should they do for supper? and what a storm there would be when her father heard about all this, and found nothing but bread and tea on the table! Slowly Nettie turned away, and slowly made the few steps from the door to the corner. She felt very blue indeed; coming out of the warm store, the chill wind made her shiver. Just at the corner somebody stopped her.
"Nettie!" said the voice of the little French baker, "what ails you? you look not well."
Nettie gave her a grateful smile, and said she was well.
"You look not like it," said Madame Auguste; "you look as if the wind might carry you off before you get home. Come to my house; I want to see you in the light."
"I haven't time; I must go home to mother, Mrs. August."
"Yes, I know! You will go home all the faster for coming this way first. You have not been to see me in these three or four weeks."
She carried Nettie along with her; it was but a step, and Nettie did not feel capable of resisting anything. The little Frenchwoman put her into the shop before her, made her sit down, and lighted a candle. The shop was nice and warm, and full of the savoury smell of fresh baking.
"We have made our own bread lately," said Nettie, in answer to the charge of not coming there.
"Do you make it good?" said Madame Auguste.
"It isn't like yours, Mrs. August," said Nettie, smiling.
"If you will come and live with me next summer, I will teach you how to do some things; and you shall not look so blue neither. Have you had your supper?"
"No; and I am just going home to get supper. I must go, Mrs. August."
"You come in here," said the Frenchwoman; "you are my prisoner. I am all alone, and I want somebody for company. You take off your cloak, Nettie, and I shall give you something to keep the wind out. You do what I bid you!"
Nettie felt too cold and weak to make any ado about complying, unless duty had forbade; and she thought there was time enough yet. She let her cloak drop, and took off her hood. The little back room to which Madame Auguste had brought her was only a trifle bigger than the bit of a shop; but it was as cozy as it was little. A tiny stove warmed it, and kept warm, too, a tiny iron pot and tea-kettle, which were steaming away. The bed was at one end, draped nicely with red curtains; there was a little looking-glass, and some prints in frames round the walls; there was Madame's little table covered with a purple cloth, and with her work and a small clock and various pretty things on it. Madame Auguste had gone to a cupboard in the wall, and taken out a couple of plates and little bowls, which she set on a little round stand; and then lifting the cover of the pot on the stove, she ladled out a bowlful of what was in it, and gave it to Nettie with one of her nice crisp rolls.
"Eat that!" she said. "I shan't let you go home till you have swallowed that to keep the cold out. It makes me all freeze to look at you."
So she filled her own bowl, and made good play with her spoon, while between spoonfuls she looked at Nettie; and the good little woman smiled in her heart to see how easy it was for Nettie to obey her. The savoury, simple, comforting broth she had set before her was the best thing to the child's delicate stomach that she had tasted for many a day.
"Is it good?" said the Frenchwoman, when Nettie's bowl was half empty.
"It's so good!" said Nettie. "I didn't know I was so hungry."
"Now you will not feel the cold so," said the Frenchwoman, "and you will go back quicker. Do you like myriz-au-gras?"
"Whatis it, ma'am?" said Nettie.
The Frenchwoman laughed, and made Nettie say it over till she could pronounce the words.
"Now you like it," she said, "that is a French dish. Do you think Mrs. Mat'ieson would like it?"
"I am sure she would!" said Nettie. "But I don't know how to make it."
"You shall come here, and I will teach it to you. And now you shall carry a little home to your mother, and ask her if she will do the honour to a French dish to approve it. It do not cost anything. I cannot sell much bread the winters; I live on what cost me nothing."
While saying this, Madame Auguste had filled a little pail with theriz-au-gras, and put a couple of her rolls along with it. "It must have the French bread," she said; and she gave it to Nettie, who looked quite cheered up, and very grateful.
"You are a good little girl!" she said. "How keep you always your face looking so happy? There is always one little streak of sunshine here"—drawing her finger across above Nettie's eyebrows—"and another here,"—and her finger passed over the line of Nettie's lips.
"That's because Iamhappy, Mrs. August."
"Always?"
"Yes, always."
"What makes you so happy always? You was just the same in the cold winter out there, as when you was eating myriz-au-gras. Now, me—I am cross in the cold, and not happy."
But the Frenchwoman saw a deeper light come into Nettie's eyes as she answered,
"It is because I love the Lord Jesus, Mrs. August, and He makes me happy."
"You?" said Madame. "My child! What do you say, Nettie? I think not I have heard you right."
"Yes, Mrs. August, I am happy because I love Jesus. I know He loves me, and He will take me to be with Him."
"Not just yet," said the Frenchwoman, "I hope. Well, I wish I was so happy as you, Nettie. Good bye!"
Nettie ran home, more comforted by her good supper, and more thankful to the goodness of God in giving it, and happy in the feeling of His goodness, than can be told. And very, very glad she was of that little tin pail in her hand she knew her mother needed. Mrs. Mathieson had time to eat the rice broth before her husband came in.
"She said she would show me how to make it," said Nettie, "and it don't cost anything."
"Why, it's just rice and—whatis it? I don't see," said Mrs. Mathieson. "It isn't rice and milk."
Nettie laughed at her mother.
"Mrs. August didn't tell. She called it reeso—I forget what she called it!"
"It's the best thing I ever saw," said Mrs. Mathieson. "There—put the pail away. Your father's coming."
He was in a terrible humour, as they expected; and Nettie and her mother had a sad evening of it. And the same sort of thing lasted for several days. Mrs. Mathieson hoped that perhaps Mr. Lumber would take into his head to seek lodgings somewhere else, or, at least, that Mathieson would have been shamed into paying Jackson's bill; but neither thing happened. Mr. Lumber found his quarters too comfortable; and Mr. Mathieson spent too much of his earnings on drink to find the amount necessary to clear off the scores at the grocer's shop.
From that time, as they could run up no new account, the family were obliged to live on what they could immediately pay for. That was seldom a sufficient supply; and so, in dread of the storms that came whenever their wants touched Mr. Mathieson's own comfort, Nettie and her mother denied themselves constantly what they very much needed. The old can sometimes bear this better than the young. Nettie grew more delicate, more thin, and more feeble every day. It troubled her mother sadly. Mr. Mathieson could not be made to see it. Indeed, he was little at home except when he was eating.
"Scarce discerning aught before us,On our weary way we go;But one guiding star is o'er us,Beaming forth the way to show."Watch we, pray we, that we sink not,Journeying on while yet we can;At a moment when we think notWe shall meet the Son of Man."
THE NEW BLANKET."Lift up your hands in the sanctuary, and bless the Lord."Ps.cxxxiv. 2.
THE NEW BLANKET.
"Lift up your hands in the sanctuary, and bless the Lord."Ps.cxxxiv. 2.
I
t was very cold up in Nettie's garret now; the winter had moved on into the latter part of December, and the frosts were very keen; and the winter winds seemed to come in at one end of the attic and to just sweep through to the other, bringing all except the snow with them. Even the snow often drifted in through the cracks of the rough wainscoat board, or under the shutter, and lay in little white streaks or heaps on the floor, and never melted. To-night there was no wind, and Nettie had left her shutter open, that she might see the stars as she lay in bed. It did not make much difference in the feeling of the place, for it was about as cold inside as out; and the stars were great friends of Nettie's. How bright they looked down to-night! It was very cold, and lying awake made Nettie colder: she shivered sometimes under all her coverings; still she lay looking at the stars in that square patch of sky that her shutter-opening gave her to see, and thinking of the Golden City. "They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters; and God shall wipe all tears from their eyes."
"His servants shall serve Him,"—thought Nettie; "and mother will be there, and Barry—and I shall be there! and then I shall be happy. And I am happy now. 'Blessed be the Lord, which hath not turned away my prayer, nor His mercy from me!'" And if that verse went through Nettie's head once, it did fifty times: so did this one, which the quiet stars seemed to repeat and whisper to her, "The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants, and none of them that trust in Him shall be desolate." And though now and then a shiver passed over Nettie's shoulders with the cold, she was ready to sing for very gladness and fulness of heart.
But lying awake and shivering did not do Nettie's little body any good; she looked so very white the next day that it caught even Mr. Mathieson's attention. He reached out his arm and drew Nettie toward him, as she was passing between the cupboard and the table. Then he looked at her, but he did not say how she looked.
"Do you know the day after to-morrow is Christmas Day?" said he.
"Yes, I know. It's the day when Christ was born," said Nettie.
"Well, I don't know anything about that," said her father; "but what I mean is, that a week after is New Year. What would you like me to give you, Nettie,—hey?"
Nettie stood still for a moment, then her eyes lighted up.
"Will you give it to me, father, if I tell you?"
"I don't know. If it is not extravagant, perhaps I will."
"It will not cost much," said Nettie, earnestly. "Will you give me what I choose, father, if it does not cost too much?"
"I suppose I will. What is it?"
"Father, you won't be displeased?"
"Not I!" said Mr. Mathieson, drawing Nettie's little form tighter in his grasp: he thought he had never felt it so slight and thin before.
"Father, I am going to ask you a great thing!—to go to church with me New Year's Day."
"To church!" said her father, frowning; but he remembered his promise, and he felt Nettie in his arms yet. "What on earth good will that do you?"
"A great deal of good. It would please me so much, father."
"What do you want me to go to church for?" said Mr. Mathieson, not sure yet what humour he was going to be in.
"To thank God, father, that there was a Christmas, when Jesus came, that we might have a New Year."
"What—what!" said Mr. Mathieson. "What are you talking about?"
"Because, father," said Nettie, trembling, and seizing her chance, "since Jesus loved us, and came and died for us, we all may have a New Year of glory. I shall, father; and I want you too. Oh do, father!" and Nettie burst into tears.
Mr. Mathieson held her fast, and his face showed a succession of changes for a minute or so. But she presently raised her head and kissed him, and said,
"May I have what I want, father?"
"Yes—go along," said Mr. Mathieson. "I should like to know how to refuse you, though. But, Nettie, don't you want me to give you anything else?"
"Nothing else!" she told him, with her face all shining with joy.
Mr. Mathieson looked at her, and seemed very thoughtful all supper-time.
"Can't you strengthen that child up a bit?" he said to his wife afterwards. "She does too much."
"She does as little as I can help," said Mrs. Mathieson, "but she is always at something. I am afraid her room is too cold o' nights. She ain't fit to bear it. It's bitter up there."
"Give her another blanket or quilt, then," said her husband. "I should think you would see to that. Does she say she is cold?"
"No,—never, except sometimes when I see her looking blue, and ask her."
"And what does she say then?"
"She says sometimes she is a little cold," said Mrs. Mathieson.
"Well, do put something more over her, and have no more of it!" said her husband, violently. "Sit still and let the child be cold, when another covering would make it all right!"—and he ended with swearing at her.
Mrs. Mathieson did not dare to tell him that Nettie's food was not of a sufficiently nourishing kind: she knew what the answer to that would be; and she feared that a word more about Nettie's sleeping-room would be thought an attack upon Mr. Lumber's being in the house. So she was silent.
But there came home something for Nettie in the course of the Christmas week, which comforted her a little, and perhaps quieted Mr. Mathieson too. He brought with him, on coming home to supper one evening, a great thick roll of a bundle, and put it in Nettie's arms, telling her that was for her New Year.
"For me?" said Nettie, the colour starting a little into her cheeks.
"Yes, for you. Open it, and see."
So Nettie did, with some trouble, and there tumbled out upon the floor a great heavy warm blanket, new from the shop. Mr. Mathieson thought the pink in her cheeks was the prettiest thing he had seen in a long while.
"Is this forme, father?"
"I mean it to be so. See if it will go on that bed of yours, and keep you warm."
Nettie gave her father some very hearty thanks, which he took in a silent, pleased way; and then she hastened off with her blanket upstairs. How thick and warm it was! and how nicely it would keep her comfortable when she knelt all wrapped up in it on that cold floor! For a little while it would; not even a warm blanket would keep her from the cold more than a little while at a time up there. But Nettie tried its powers the first thing she did.
Did Mr. Mathieson mean the blanket to take the place of his promise? Nettie thought of that, but like a wise child she said nothing at all till the Sunday morning came. Then, before she set off for Sunday school, she came to her father's elbow.
"Father, I'll be home at a quarter after ten; will you be ready then?"
"Ready for what?" said Mr. Mathieson.
"For my New Year's gift," said Nettie. "You know you promised I should go to church with you."
"Did I? And ain't you going to take the blanket for your New Year's gift, and let me off, Nettie?"
"No, father, to be sure not. I'll be home at a quarter past; please don't forget." And Nettie went off to school very thankful and happy, for her father's tone was not unkind. How glad she was New Year's Day had come on Sunday!
Mr. Mathieson was as good as his word. He was ready at the time, and they walked to the church together. That was a great day to Nettie. Her father and mother going to church in company with her and with each other! And when they got to church, it seemed as if every word of the prayers, and of the reading, and of the hymns, and of the sermon, struck on all Nettie's nerves of hearing and feeling. Would her father understand any of those sweet words? would he feel them? would they reach him? Nettie little thought that what he felt most, whatdidreach him, though he did not thoroughly understand it, was the look of her own face, though she never but once dared turn it toward him. There was a little colour in it more than usual; her eye was deep in its earnestness; and the grave set of her little mouth was broken up now and then in a way that Mr. Mathieson wanted to watch better than the straight sides of her sun-bonnet would let him. Once he thought he saw something more.
He walked home very soberly, and was a good deal on the silent order during the rest of the day. He did not go to church in the afternoon. But in the evening, as her mother was busy in and out getting supper ready, and Mr. Lumber had not come in, Mr. Mathieson called Nettie to his side.
"What were you crying for in church this forenoon?" he said low.
"Crying!" said Nettie, surprised. "Was I crying?"
"If it wasn't tears I saw dropping from under your hands on to the floor, it must have been some drops of rain that had got there, and I don't see how they could very well. There warn't no rain outside. What was it for, hey?"
There came a great flush all over Nettie's face, and she did not at once speak.
"Hey?—what was it for?"—repeated Mr. Mathieson.
The flush passed away. Nettie spoke very low, and with lips all of a quiver. "I remember. I was thinking, father, how 'all things are ready'—and I couldn't help wishing that you were ready too."
"Ready for what?" said Mr. Mathieson, somewhat roughly. "All things ready for what?"
"Ready for you," said Nettie. "Jesus is ready to love you, and calls you—and the angels are ready to rejoice for you—and I——"
"Go on. What of you?"
Nettie lifted her eyes to him. "I am ready to rejoice too, father."
But the time of rejoicing was not yet. Nettie burst into tears.
Mr. Mathieson was not angry, yet he flung away from her with a rude "Pshaw!" and that was all the answer she got. But the truth was, that there was something in Nettie's look of tenderness, and purity, and trembling hope, that her father's heart could not bear to meet; and, what is more, that he was never able to forget.
Nettie went about her evening business, helping her mother, and keeping back the tears which were very near again; and Mr. Mathieson began to talk with Mr. Lumber, and everything was to all appearance just as it had been hitherto. And so it went on after that.
"Well I know thy troubles,O My servant true!Thou art very weary—I was weary too:But that toil shall make theeSome day all Mine own;And the end of sorrowShall be near My throne!"
THE HOUSE-RAISING.1"In your patience possess ye your souls."—Lukexxi. 19."
THE HOUSE-RAISING.1"In your patience possess ye your souls."—Lukexxi. 19."
I
t grew colder and colder in Nettie's garret—or else she grew thinner and felt it more. She certainly thought it was colder. The snow came, and piled a thick covering on the roof, and stopped up some of the chinks in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a little better: then the winds from off the snow-covered country were keen and bitter.
One morning Nettie went to Barry secretly in his room, and asked him to bring the pail of water from the spring for her. Barry had no mind to the job.
"Why can't mother do it," he said, "if you can't?"
"Mother is busy and hasn't a minute. I always do it for her."
"Well, why can't you go on doing it? You're accustomed to it, you see, and I don't like going out so early," said Barry, stretching himself.
"I would, and I wouldn't ask you, only, Barry, somehow I don't think I'm quite strong lately, and I can hardly bring the pail—it's so heavy to me. I have to stop and rest ever so many times before I can get to the house with it."
"Well, if you stop and rest, I suppose it won't hurt you," said Barry. "Ishould want to stop and rest too, myself."
His little sister was turning away, giving it up, when she was met by her father, who stepped in from the entry. He looked red with anger.
"You take the pail, and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you hear me! Don't you let Nettie bring in another pailful when you're at home, or I'll turn you out of the house. You lazy scoundrel! You don't deserve the bread you eat. Would you let her work for you, when you are as strong as sixty?"
Barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that Mr. Mathieson in a rage advanced towards him with uplifted fist; but Nettie sprang in between, and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her brother.
"Please, father, don't!" she cried;—"please, father, don't be angry! Barry didn't think—he didn't——"
"Why didn't he?" said Mr. Mathieson. "Great lazy rascal! He wants to be flogged."
"Oh, don't!" said Nettie: "he didn't know why I asked him, or he wouldn't have refused me."
"Why did you, then?"
"Because it made my back ache so to bring it—I couldn't help asking him."
"Did you ever ask him before?"
"Never mind, please, father!" said Nettie, sweetly. "Just don't think about me, and don't be angry with Barry. It's no matter now."
"Who does think about you? Your mother don't, or she would have seen to this before."
"Mother didn't know my back ached. Father, you know she hasn't a minute: she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know I wasn't strong enough. Father, don't tell her, please, I asked Barry. It would worry her so. Please don't, father."
"Youthink of folks, anyhow. You're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson, as he turned away and left her. Nettie stood still, the flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side.
"Am I that?" she thought. "Shall I be that? O Lord, my Saviour, my dear Redeemer, send Thy peace here!" She was still in the same place and position when Barry came in again.
"It's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was in the next room. "It's as slippery as the plague going down that path to the water: it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. I'm all froze stiff with the water I've spilt on me!"
"I know it's very slippery," said Nettie.
"And then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping into it—it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. It's the most wretched work!"
"I know it, Barry," said Nettie. "I am sorry you have to do it."
"Why did you make me do it, then?" said he angrily. "You got it your own way this time. But never mind; I'll be even with you for it."
"Barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till I get stronger and don't mind; and as soon as ever I can I'll do it again. But you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the pail up that path."
"Stuff!" said Barry. And from that time, though he did not fail to bring the water in the morning, yet Nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all the day afterward. He was almost always away with his father, and she had little chance to win him to better feeling.
So the winter slowly passed and the spring came. Spring months came, at least; and now and then, to be sure, a sweet spring day, when all nature softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelt sweet with the opening buds.
"There's that house-raising to-morrow, Nettie," said Mrs. Mathieson; "it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me."
"Why, mother?"
"I know how it will be," said Mrs. Mathieson: "they'll have a grand set-to after they get it up, and your father'll be in the first of it; and I somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. I wish almost he'd get ill—or anything to keep him away. They make such a time after a house-raising."
"Oh, mother, don't wish that," said Nettie; but she began to think how it would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the day's business would be ended. Mr. Mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine workman, and always had plenty of work, and was much looked up to among his fellows.
Nettie began to think whethershecould make any effort to keep her father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging. Hitherto she had done nothing but pray for him: could she do anything more, with any chance of good coming of it? She thought and thought, and resolved that she must try. It did not look hopeful; there was little she could urge to lure Mr. Mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing except her own timid affection and the one other thing it was possible to offer him—a good supper. How to get that was not so easy; but she consulted with her mother.
Mrs. Mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make waffles2, and Mr. Mathieson used to think they were the best things that ever were made: now, if Mrs. Moss, a neighbour, would lend her waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs, she believed she could manage it still.
"But we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and I don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that raising frolic."
Nor did Nettie. It was to no powerunderheaven that she trusted. But she must use her means. She easily got the iron from Mrs. Moss. Then she borrowed the eggs from Madame Auguste, who in Lent-time always had them; then she watched with grave eyes, and many a heart-prayer the while, the mixing and making of the waffles.
"How do you manage the iron, mother?"
"Why, it is made hot," said Mrs. Mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and then, when the batter is light, you pour it in and clap it together, and put it in the stove."
"But how can you pour it in, mother? I don't see how you can fill the iron."
"Why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. You'll see."
The first thing Nettie asked when she came home from school in the afternoon was, if the waffles were light?
She never saw any look better, Mrs. Mathieson said. "But I forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and white sugar to eat on them. It was so that your father used to admire them; they won't be waffles without sugar and cinnamon. I'm afraid he'll think——but I don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about them."
Mrs. Mathieson ended with a sigh. Nettie said nothing; she went round the room, putting it in particularly nice order, then set the table. When all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and prayed that God would take care of her and bless her errand. She put the whole matter in the Lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her hood and cloak, and went down to her mother. Mr. Mathieson had not come home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no opportunity to invite him, and Nettie was now on her way to do it.
"It's turned a bad afternoon; I'm afraid it ain't fit for you to go, Nettie."
"I don't mind," said Nettie. "Maybe I'll get some sugar and cinnamon, mother, before I come back."
"Well, you know where the raising is; it's out on the Shallonway road, on beyond Mrs. August's a good bit."
Nettie nodded and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet little face, her mother felt a great strain on her heart. She would have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that would not be relieved so. She went to the window and looked out at the weather.