The Carpenters Daughter | Page 4

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 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