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, and did not spend on themselves what they really wanted; that they might not have the fearful storm of anger which was sure to come if the dinner was not plentiful and the supper did not please the taste of Mr. Mathieson and his lodger. 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 wont last me through the week, to get the things you want," she said one Sat.u.r.day 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.

"You 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 along 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. Aint 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 to 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.

So weeks went by. So her patient little feet went up and down the stairs with pails of water from the spring; and her hands made bread and baked cakes, and set rooms in order; and it was Nettie always who went to Mr.

Jackson's for meal and treacle, and to Mrs. Auguste's, the little Frenchwoman's, as she was called, for a loaf when they were now and then out of bread. And with her mornings spent at school, Nettie's days were very busy ones; and the feet that at night mounted the steps to her attic room were aching and tired enough. All the more that now Nettie and her mother lived half the time on porridge; all the provision they dared make of other things being quite consumed by the three hearty appet.i.tes that were before them at the meal. And Nettie's appet.i.te was not at all hearty, and sometimes she could hardly eat at all.

As the summer pa.s.sed 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 at 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 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, nor 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.

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, and stopped, hearing Nettie's voice singing. It was a clear, bird-like voice, and Mrs. Mathieson listened; at first she could not distinguish the words, but then came a refrain which was plain enough.

"Glory, glory, glory, glory, Glory be to G.o.d on high, Glory, glory, glory, glory, Sing his praises through the sky; Glory, glory, glory, glory, Glory to the Father give, Glory, glory, glory, glory, Sing his praises all that live."

Mrs. Mathieson's heart gave way. She sat down on the lowest step and cried, for very soreness of heart. But work must be done; and when the song had ceased, for it went on some time, Mrs. Mathieson wiped her tears with her ap.r.o.n and called, "Nettie!"

"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.

"Are you singing up there to keep yourself warm, child?"

"Well, mother, I don't know but it does," Nettie answered, smiling. "My garret did seem to me full of glory just now; and it often does, mother."

"The Lord save us!" exclaimed Mrs. Mathieson, bursting into tears again.

"I believe you're in a way to be going above, before my face!"

"Now, mother, what sort of a way is that of talking?" said Nettie, looking troubled. "You know I can't die till Jesus bids me; and I don't think he is going to take me now. What did you want me to do?"

"Nothing. You aint fit. I must go and do it myself."

"Yes I am fit. I like to do it," said Nettie. "What is it, mother?"

"Somebody's got to go to Mr. Jackson's--but you aint fit, child; you eat next to none 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 wrapped 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. When her father had given her the coin, she had meant then to keep it to buy something now and then for her mother; but it was not immediately needed, and one by one the pennies had gone to buy tracts, or as a mite to the fund for sending Bibles or missionaries to those who did not know how to sing Nettie's song of "glory."

She wondered to herself now if she had done quite right; she could not help thinking that if she had one penny she could buy a smoked herring, which, with a bit of bread and tea, would make a comfortable supper for her mother, which she could relish. Had she done right? But one more thought of the children and grown people who have not the Bible,--who know nothing of the golden city with its gates of pearl, and are nowise fit to enter by those pure entrances where "nothing that defileth" can go in,--and Nettie wished no more for a penny back that she had given to bring them there. She hugged herself in her cloak, and as she went quick along the darkening ways, the light from that city seemed to shine in her heart and make warmth through the cold. She was almost sorry to go to Mr. Jackson's shop; it had grown rather a disagreeable place to her lately. It was half full of people, as usual at that hour.

"What do you want?" said Mr. Jackson, rather curtly, when Nettie's turn came and she had told her errand. "What!" he exclaimed, "seven pounds of meal and a pound of b.u.t.ter, 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 Mme. 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.