The Carpenters Daughter | Page 3

to do: for the coverlets were of a very heavy and coarse manufacture of cotton and woollen mixed, blue and white; and then gradually found a way to bestow the various articles in Barry's apartment, so that things looked neat and comfortable. But perhaps it was a little bit of a sign of Nettie's feeling, that she began softly to sing to herself,
"'There is rest for the weary.'"
"Hollo!" burst in a rude boy of 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 wont have time to fly it now, Barry; supper will be ready in two minutes."
"What 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 make 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 by, 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 confounded 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 sunbeams 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