The Carpenters Daughter | Page 2

man coming,
and I've got to get everything ready for him by to-morrow night."
"Who is it, mother?"

"It's one of your father's friends; so it's no good," said Mrs. Mathieson.
"But where can he sleep?" Nettie asked, after a moment of thinking.
Her mother paused.
"There's no room but yours he can have. Barry wont be moved."
"Where shall I sleep, mother?"
"There's no place but up in the attic. I'll see what I can do to fit up a
corner for you--if I ever can get time," said Mrs. Mathieson, taking up
her pail. Nettie followed her example, and certainly did not smile again
till they reached the house. They went round to the front door, because
the back door belonged to another family. At the door, as they set down
their pails again before mounting the stairs, Nettie smiled at her mother
very placidly, and said--
"Don't you go to fit up the attic, mother; I'll see to it in time. I can do it
just as well."
Mrs. Mathieson made no answer but groaned internally, and they went
up the flight of stairs which led to their part of the house. The ground
floor was occupied by somebody else. A little entry way at the top of
the stairs received the wooden pail of water, and with the tin one Nettie
went into the room used by the family. It was her father and mother's
sleeping-room, their bed standing in one corner. It was the kitchen
apparently, for a small cooking-stove was there, on which Nettie put
the tea-kettle when she had filled it. And it was the common
living-room also; for the next thing she did was to open a cupboard and
take out cups and saucers and arrange them on a leaf table which stood
toward one end of the room. The furniture was wooden and plain; the
woodwork of the windows was unpainted; the cups and plates were of
the commonest kind; and the floor had no covering but two strips of rag
carpeting; nevertheless the whole was tidy and very clean, showing
constant care. Mrs. Mathieson had sunk into a chair, as one who had no
spirit to do anything; and watched her little daughter setting the table
with eyes which seemed not to see her. They gazed inwardly at
something she was thinking of.

"Mother, what is there for supper?"
"There is nothing. I must make some porridge." And Mrs. Mathieson
got up from her chair.
"Sit you still, mother, and I'll make it. I can."
"If both our backs are to be broken," said Mrs. Mathieson, "I'd rather
mine would break first." And she went on with her preparations.
"But you don't like porridge," said Nettie. "You didn't eat anything last
night."
"That's nothing, child. I can bear an empty stomach, if only my brain
wasn't quite so full."
Nettie drew near the stove and looked on, a little sorrowfully.
"I wish you had something you liked, mother! If only I was a little
older, wouldn't it be nice? I could earn something then, and I would
bring you home things that you liked out of my own money."
This was not said sorrowfully, but with a bright gleam as of some
fancied and pleasant possibility. The gleam was so catching, Mrs.
Mathieson turned from her porridge-pot which she was stirring, to give
a very heartfelt kiss to Nettie's lips; then she stirred on, and the shadow
came over her face again.
"Dear," she said, "just go in Barry's room and straighten it up a little
before he comes in--will you? I haven't had a minute to do it, all day;
and there wont be a bit of peace if he comes in and it isn't in order."
Nettie turned and opened another door, which let her into a small
chamber used as somebody's bedroom. It was all brown, like the other;
a strip of the same carpet in the middle of the floor, and a small cheap
chest of drawers, and a table. The bed had not been made up, and the
tossed condition of the bedclothes spoke for the strength and energy of
the person that used them, whoever he was. A pair of coarse shoes were

in the middle of the whole; another pair, or rather a pair of half-boots,
out at the toes, were in the middle of the floor; stockings, one under the
bed and one under the table. On the table was a heap of confusion; and
on the little bureau were to be seen pieces of wood, half cut and uncut,
with shavings, and the knife and saw that had made them. Old
newspapers, and school books, and a slate, and two kites, with no end
of tail, were lying over every part of the room