Little Nettie; or, Home Sunshine

"Oysters ain't much 'count," said another speaker. "I'd rather have a slice of good sweet pork any day."

"Father," said Nettie. She had come close up to him, but she trembled. What possible chance could she have?

"Holloa!" said Mr. Mathieson, turning suddenly. "Nettie!—what's the matter, girl?"

He spoke roughly, and Nettie saw that his face was red. She trembled all over, but spoke as bravely as she could.

"Father, I am come to invite you home to supper to-night. Mother and I have a particular reason to want to see you. Will you come?"

"Come where?" said Mr. Mathieson, but half understanding her.

"Come home to tea, father. I came to ask you. Mother has made something you like."

"I'm busy, child. Go home. I'm going to supper at Jackson's. Go home."

He turned to his hammering again. But Nettie stood still in the snow and waited.

"Father," she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low.

"What! ain't you gone?" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson.

"Father," said Nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you; and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful, and just ready to bake. Won't you come and have them with us? Mother says they'll be very nice."

"Why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled Barry, "when we weren't going to punch and oysters? That's a better game."

If Mathieson had not been drinking, he might have been touched by the sight of Nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood, on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. She looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps Mr. Mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and Barry's suggestion fell into ready ground.

"I tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "What are you doing here? I tell you I'm not coming home—I'm engaged to supper to-night, and I'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. Go home!"

Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey if her father had been quite himself; but in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. She waited an instant, and again said softly and pleadingly, "Father, I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,—all ready."

"Cinnamon and sugar—" he cursed with a great oath; and turning, gave Nettie a violent push from him, which was half a blow. "Go home!" he repeated—"go home and mind your own business, and don't take it upon you to mind mine."

Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. Nobody saw her; but that her father should have laid a rough hand on her hurt her sorely; it hurt her bitterly. He had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now rather made it more sorrowful than less so to Nettie's mind.

She could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, would the Lord not hear her, after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her ill. There was more to do that: the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back on her road till she neared the shop of Madame Auguste, then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps.

She did not remain there two seconds. Madame Auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold. As instantly, two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy, and her brow with Cologne water, and chafed her hands. She had laid Nettie on the floor of the inner room, and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.

"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?"

"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise herself. "Mother will want me—she'll want me."

"You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow; "and I will find some person to carry you home—or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."

Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief that she had for a moment failed to trust fully the Lord's promises. She fully trusted them now. Let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek Him" had a blessing in store for her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For He hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath He hid His face from him; but when he cried unto Him, He heard." "Our heart shall rejoice in Him, because we have trusted in His holy name." Prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.

Meanwhile Madame Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like herself now, only very pale.

"I must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. How did I come in here?"

"Blood!" said the Frenchwoman; "where did you cut yourself, Nettie? Let me look!"

Which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that Nettie smiled at her. Her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was.

"How did I get in here, Mrs. August?"

The Frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. Instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some riz-au-gras again.

"What did you have for dinner, Nettie? you did not tell me."

"Not much—I wasn't hungry," said Nettie. "Oh, I must get up and go home to mother."

"You shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised Nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "It is good for you. You must take it. Where is your father? Don't talk, but tell me. I will do everything right."

"He is at work on Mr. Jackson's new house."

"Is he there to-day?"

"Yes."

Madame Auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. It was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come,—if they were not gone by already!—how should she know? Even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the Frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. The men came along, a scattered group of four or five.

"Is Mr. Mat'ieson there?" she said. Madame Auguste hardly knew him by sight. "Men, I say! is Mr. Mat'ieson there?"

"George, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking tall man paused at Madame's threshold.

"Are you Mr. Mat'ieson?" said the Frenchwoman.

"Yes, ma'am. That's my name."

"Will you come in? I have something to speak to you. Your little daughter Nettie is very ill."

"Ill!" exclaimed the man. "Nettie!—Where is she?"

"She is here. Hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very ill. She is come fainting at my door, and I have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and I think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night."

"Where is she?" said Mr. Mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. He looked round the shop.

"She is not here—you shall see her—but you must not tell her she is ill," said the Frenchwoman, anxiously.

"Where is she?" repeated Mr. Mathieson, with a tone and look which made Madame Auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. She opened the inner door without further preparation, and Mr. Mathieson walked in. By the fading light he saw Nettie lying on the floor at his feet. He was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. He stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word.

"Father," said Nettie, softly.

He stooped down over her. "What do you want, Nettie?"

"Can't I go home?"