The Carpenters Daughter | Page 4

sidewalks 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, 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 of it 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.
"O 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."
"Hurra!" 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."
"O 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 further 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, though not so fast as she spoke her own tongue.
"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."
"O 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 hand, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she went up the street.
"One must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her capable little head. "I should like to hear her say 'One must be rested sometimes;' but