Little Nettie; or, Home Sunshine

"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."

"You think 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 whether she could 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 waffles[2 - Waffles, a species of sweet cake used on such festivals in America.], 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 power under heaven 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.

"Lord, Thy children guide and keep,
As with feeble steps they press
On the pathway rough and steep,
Through this weary wilderness.
Holy Jesu, day by day
Lead us in the narrow way.

"There are stony ways to tread;
Give the strength we sorely lack.
There are tangled paths to thread;
Light us, lest we miss the track.
Holy Jesu, day by day
Lead us in the narrow way."

CHAPTER VII.

THE WAFFLES

"My thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," saith the Lord.—Isaiah lv. 8.

The early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then, March-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole skyful of clouds, and turned at last to snowing. The large feathery flakes were falling now fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and chill, in the air and under the foot. Nettie had no overshoes: she was accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. She hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snow-flakes rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through by-and-bye. Nettie thought little of it. What was she thinking of? She was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed Friend who has promised to be always with His servants, and remembering His promise, "They shall not be ashamed that wait for me." What did the snow and the wet matter to Nettie? Yet she looked too much like a snow-flake herself when she reached Mr. Jackson's store and went in. The white frost had lodged all round her old black silk hood, and even edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within looked just as pure.

Mr. Jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when Nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's-worth of fine white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the money, he made not the slightest difficulty, but measured or weighed it out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than that. So Nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her errand. Her heart began to beat a little bit now.

The feathery snowflakes fell thicker, and made everything wetter than ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. Nettie went on, past the little bake-woman's house, and past all the thickly built part of the village. Then came houses more scattered—large handsome houses, with beautiful gardens and grounds, and handsome palings along the road-side. Past one or two of these, and then there was a space of wild ground; and here Mr. Jackson was putting up a new house for himself, and meant to have a fine place. The wild bushes grew in a thick hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them Nettie could see the new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day. She went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well, and then the new building was close before her. The men were at work yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rang sharp on all sides of the frame; some were up on the ladders, some were below. Nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her father. At last she found him. He and Barry, who was learning his father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as bees. Talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and Nettie drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. She was not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand: she waited.

Barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for her. If she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. Mr. Mathieson was looking the other way.

"I say, Mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame, "I s'pose 'tain't worth carrying any of this stuff—Jackson'll have enough without it?"

The words were explained, to Nettie's horror, by a jug in the man's hands, which he lifted to his lips.

"Jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said Nettie's father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a wet evening. But I've stood to my word, and I expect he'll stand to his'n."

"He gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another man, from the top of the ladder.

"Punch and oysters," said Mathieson, hammering away, "or I've raised the last frame I ever will raise for him. I expect he'll stand it."