Little Nettie; or, Home Sunshine

"Why, it's just rice and—what is 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 not
We shall meet the Son of Man."

CHAPTER V.

THE NEW BLANKET

"Lift up your hands in the sanctuary, and bless the Lord."

    Ps. cxxxiv. 2.

It 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.