Down in a little hollow, with the sides grown full of wild thorn, alder bushes, and stunted cedars, ran the stream of a clear spring. It ran over a bed of pebbly stones, showing every one as if there had been no water there, so clear it was; and it ran with a sweet soft murmur or gurgle over the stones, as if singing to itself and the bushes as it ran.

On one side of the little stream a worn foot path took its course among the bushes; and down this path one summer's afternoon came a woman and a girl. They had pails to fill at the spring; the woman had a large wooden one, and the girl a light tin pail; and they drew the water with a little tin dipper, for it was not deep enough to let a pail be used for that. The pails were filled in silence, only the spring always was singing; and the woman and the girl turned and went up the path again. After getting up the bank, which was only a few feet, the path still went gently rising through a wild bit of ground, full of trees and low bushes; and not far off, through the trees, there came a gleam of bright light from the window of a house, on which the setting sun was shining. Half way to the house the girl and the woman stopped to rest; for water is heavy, and the tin pail which was so light before it was filled, had made the little girl's figure bend over to one side like a willow branch all the way from the spring. They stopped to rest, and even the woman had a very weary, jaded look.

"I feel as if I shall give up, some of these days," she exclaimed.

"O no, mother!" the little girl answered, cheerfully. She was panting, with her hand on her side, and her face had a quiet, very sober look; only at those words a little pleasant smile broke over it.

"I shall," said the woman. "One can't stand everything,—for ever."

The little girl had not got over panting yet, but standing there she struck up the sweet air and words,—

"Yes, in the grave!" said the woman, bitterly. "There's no rest short of that,—for mind or body."

"O yes, mother dear. 'For we which have believed do enter into rest.' Jesus don't make us wait."

"I believe you eat the Bible and sleep on the Bible," said the woman, with a faint smile, taking at the same time a corner of her apron to wipe away a stray tear which had gathered in her eye. "I am glad it rests you, Nettie."

"And you, mother."

"Sometimes," Mrs. Mathieson answered, with a sigh. "But there's your father going to bring home a boarder, Nettie."

"A boarder, mother!—What for?"

"Heaven knows!—if it isn't to break my back, and my heart together. I thought I had enough to manage before, but here's this 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 that happened to be convenient; also an ink bottle and pens; with chalk and resin and a medley of unimaginable things beside, that only boys can collect together and find delight in. If Nettie sighed as all this hurly-burly met her eye, it was only an internal sigh. She set about patiently bringing things to order. First made the bed, which it took all her strength 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,

"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 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 I do not hear that."

So perhaps Nettie thought, as she went homeward. It would have been very natural. Now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the soft shades of evening were gathering and lights twinkled in windows. Nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. Perhaps she wished her Saturday's work was all done, like other people's. All I can tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street, all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words,

And that when she got home she ran up stairs quite briskly, and came in with a very placid face; and told her mother she had had a pleasant walk—which was perfectly true.

"I'm glad, dear," said her mother, with a sigh. "What made it pleasant?"

"Why, mother," said Nettie, "Jesus was with me all the way."

"God bless you, child!" said her mother; "you are the very rose of my heart!"

There was only time for this little dialogue, for which Mr. Mathieson's slumbers had given a chance. But then Barry entered, and noisily claimed Nettie's promise. And without a cloud crossing her sweet brow, she made the cakes, and baked them on the stove, and served Barry until he had enough; nor ever said how weary she was of being on her feet. There were some cakes left, and Mrs. Mathieson saw to it that Nettie sat down and ate them; and then sent her off to bed without suffering her to do anything more; though Nettie pleaded to be allowed to clear away the dishes. Mrs. Mathieson did that; and then sat down to make darns and patches on various articles of clothing, till the old clock of the church on the hill tolled out solemnly the hour of twelve all over the village.