Little Nettie; or, Home Sunshine

For a few minutes Nettie almost thought she could not sleep up there alone, and must go down and implore her mother to let her spread her bed in a corner of her room. But what a bustle that would make! Her mother would be troubled, and her father would be angry, and the lodger would be disturbed, and there was no telling how much harm would come of it. No; the peacemaker of the family must not do that. And then the words floated into Nettie's mind again, "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God." Like a strain of the sweetest music it floated in; and if an angel had come and brought the words straight to Nettie, she could not have been more comforted. She felt the rats could not hurt her while she was within hearing of that music; and she got up and kneeled down upon the chest under the little window, and looked out.

It was like the day that had passed, not like the evening. So purely and softly the moon-beams lay on all the fields and trees and hills, there was no sign of anything but peace and purity to be seen. No noise of men's work or voices; no clangour of the iron foundry which on week-days might be heard; no sight of anything unlovely; but the wide beauty which God had made, and the still peace and light which He had spread over it. Every little flapping leaf seemed to Nettie to tell of its Maker; and the music of those words seemed to be all through the still air—"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God." Tears of gladness and hope slowly gathered in Nettie's eyes. The children of God will enter in, by-and-bye, through those pearly gates, into that city of gold "where they need no candle, neither light of the sun, for the Lord God giveth them light."

"So He can give me light here—or what's better than light," thought Nettie. "God isn't only out there, in all that beautiful moonlight world—He is here in my poor little attic too; and He will take just as good care of me as He does of the birds, and better, for I am His child, and they are only His beautiful little servants."

Nettie's fear was gone. She prayed her evening prayer, and trusted herself to the Lord Jesus to take care of her; and then she undressed herself and lay down and went to sleep, just as quietly as any sparrow of them all, with its head under its wing.

"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."

CHAPTER III.

NETTIE'S GARRET

"I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me."—Psalm xxiii. 4.

Nettie'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."

"You are 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.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BROWN CLOAK IN NOVEMBER

"How long, O Lord?"—Rev. vi. 10.

November 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 through her as 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 that she often 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 my riz-au-gras?"

"What is 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 the riz-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 I am happy, 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 my riz-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—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 notWe 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.