some fifteen years, opening the door from the entry,—"who's puttin' my room to rights?"
A very gentle voice said, "I've done it, Barry."
"What have you done with that pine log?"
"Here it is,—in the corner behind the bureau."
"Don't you touch it, now, to take it for your fire,—mind, Nettie! Where's my kite?"
"You won't have time to fly it now, Barry; supper will be ready in two minutes."
"What have you got?"
"The same kind we had last night."
"I don't care for supper." Barry was getting the tail of his kite together.
"But please, Barry, come now; because it will give mother so much more trouble if you don't. She has the things to clear away after you're done, you know."
"Trouble! so much talk about trouble! I don't mind trouble. I don't want any supper, I tell you."
Nettie knew well enough he would want it by-and-bye, but there was no use in saying anything more, and she said nothing. Barry got his kite together and went off. Then came a heavier step on the stairs, which she knew; and she hastily went into the other room to see that all was ready. The tea was made, and Mrs. Mathieson put the smoking dish of porridge on the table, just as the door opened and a man came in—a tall, burly, strong man, with a face that would have been a good face enough if its expression had been different and if its hue had not been that of a purplish-red flush. He came to the table and silently sat down as he took a survey of what was on it.
"Give me a cup of tea! Have you got no bread, Sophia?"
"Nothing but what you see. I hoped you would bring home some money, Mr. Mathieson. I have neither milk nor bread; it's a mercy there's sugar. I don't know what you expect a lodger to live on."
"Live on his board,—that'll give you enough. But you want something to begin with. I'd go out and get one or two things—but I'm so confoundedly tired, I can't."
Mrs. Mathieson, without a word, put on a shawl and went to the closet for her bonnet.
"I'll go, mother! Let me go, please. I want to go," exclaimed Nettie, eagerly. "I can get it. What shall I get, father?"
Slowly and weariedly the mother laid off her things; as quickly the child put hers on.
"What shall I get, father?"
"Well, you can go down the street to Jackson's, and get what your mother wants: some milk and bread; and then you'd better fetch seven pounds of meal and a quart of treacle. And ask him to give you a nice piece of pork out of his barrel."
"She can't bring all that!" exclaimed the mother; "you'd better go yourself, Mr. Mathieson. That would be a great deal more than the child can carry, or I either."
"Then I'll go twice, mother: it isn't far; I'd like to go. I'll get it. Please give me the money, father."
He cursed and swore at her for answer. "Go along, and do as you are bid, without all this chaffering! Go to Jackson's, and tell him you want the things, and I'll give him the money to-morrow. He knows me."
Nettie knew he did, and stood her ground.
Her father was just enough in liquor to be a little thick-headed and foolish.
"You know I can't go without the money, father," she said, gently; "and to-morrow is Sunday."
He cursed Sunday and swore again, but finally put his hand in his pocket and threw some money across the table to her. He was just in a state not to be careful what he did, and he threw her crown-pieces where, if he had been quite himself, he would have given shillings. Nettie took them without any remark, and her basket, and went out.
It was just sundown. The village lay glittering in the light that would be gone in a few minutes; and up on the hill the white church, standing high, showed all bright in the sun-beams, from its sparkling vane at the top of the spire down to the lowest step at the door. Nettie's home was in a branch road, a few steps from the main street of the village, that led up to the church at one end of it. All along that street the sunlight lay, on the grass, and the roadway, and the side-walks, and the tops of a few elm trees. The street was empty; it was most people's supper-time. Nettie turned the corner and went down the village. She went slowly: her little feet were already tired with the work they had done that day, and back and arms and head all seemed tired too. But Nettie never thought it hard that her mother did not go instead of letting her go; she knew her mother could not bear to be seen in the village in the old shabby gown and shawl she wore; for Mrs. Mathieson had seen better days. And besides that, she would be busy enough as it was, and till a late hour, this Saturday night. Nettie's gown was shabby too—yes, very shabby, compared with that almost every other child in the village wore; yet somehow Nettie was not ashamed. She did not think of it now, as her slow steps took her down the village street; she was thinking what she should do about the money. Her father had given her two or three times as much, she knew, as he meant her to spend; he was a good workman, and had just got in his week's wages. What should Nettie do? Might she keep and give to her mother what was over? it was, and would be, so much wanted! and from her father they could never get it again. He had his own ways of disposing of what he earned, and very little indeed went to the wants of his wife and daughter. What might Nettie do! She pondered, swinging her basket in her hand, till she reached a corner where the village street turned off again, and where the store of Mr. Jackson stood. There she found Barry bargaining for some things he at least had money for.
"Oh, Barry, how good!" exclaimed Nettie; "you can help me carry my things home."
"I'll know the reason first, though," answered Barry. "What are you going to get?"
"Father wants a bag of corn-meal, and a piece of pork, and some treacle; and you know I can't carry them all, Barry. I've got to get bread and milk besides."
"Hurrah!" said Barry; "now we'll have fried cakes! I'll tell you what I'll do, Nettie—I'll take home the treacle, if you'll make me some to-night for supper."
"Oh, I can't, Barry! I've got so much else to do, and it's Saturday night."
"Very good—get your things home yourself, then."
Barry turned away, and Nettie made her bargains. He still stood by, however, and watched her. When the pork and the meal and the treacle were bestowed in the basket, it was so heavy she could not manage to carry it. How many journeys to and fro would it cost her?
"Barry," she said, "you take this home for me, and if mother says so, I'll make you the cakes."
"Be quick, then," said her brother, shouldering the basket, "for I'm getting hungry."
Nettie went a few steps farther on the main road of the village, which was little besides one long street, and not very long either, and went in at the door of a very little dwelling, neat and tidy like all the rest. It admitted her to the tiniest morsel of a shop—at least there was a long table there which seemed to do duty as a counter; and before, not behind it, sat a spruce little woman sewing. She jumped up as Nettie entered. By the becoming smartness of her calico dress and white collar, the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity of feature, you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a Frenchwoman. She spoke English quite well, but rather slowly.
"I want two loaves of bread, Mrs. August, and a pint of milk, if you please."
"How will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the time."
"Oh yes, I can," said Nettie, cheerfully. "I can manage. They are not heavy."
"No, I hope not," said the Frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but two loaves are not one, no more. Is your mother well?"
She then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out the milk. Nettie answered, her mother was well.
"And you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "Somebody is tired this evening."
"Yes," said Nettie, brightly; "but I don't mind. One must be tired sometimes. Thank you, ma'am."
The woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in her hands,