THE HOUSE-RAISING.[2]

It grew colder and colder in Nettie's garret—or else she grew thinner and felt it more. She certainly thought it was colder. The snow came, and piled a thick covering on the roof and stopped up some of the chinks in the clapboarding with its white caulking; and that made the place a little better; then the winds from off the snow-covered country were keen and bitter.

Nettie's whole day was so busy that she had little time to think, except when she went upstairs at night; covered up there under her blankets and quilts, and looking up at the stars, she used to feel sadly that things were in a very bad way. Her father was out constantly o' nights, and they knew too surely where he spent them. He was not a confirmed drunkard yet; but how long would it take, at this rate? And that man Lumber leading him on, with a thicker head himself, and Barry following after! No seeming thought nor care for his wife and daughter and their comfort; it was with great difficulty they could get from him enough money for their daily needs; and to make that do, Nettie and her mother pinched and starved themselves. Often and often Nettie went to bed with an empty stomach, because she was not hearty enough to eat porridge or pork, and the men had not left enough of other viands for herself and her mother. And neither of them would pretend to want that little there was, for fear the other wanted it more.

Her mother was patient and quiet now; not despairing, as a few months ago; and that was such joy to Nettie that she felt often much more like giving thanks than complaining. Yet she saw her mother toiling and insufficiently cared for, and she went to bed feeling very poor and thin herself; then Nettie used to look at the stars and remember the Lord's promises and the golden city, till at last she would go to sleep upon her pillow feeling the very richest little child in all the country. "They shall not be ashamed that wait for me"—was one word which was very often the last in her thoughts. Nettie had no comfort from her father in all the time between New Year and spring. Except one word.

One morning she went to Barry secretly in his room, and asked him to bring the pail of water from the spring for her. Barry had no mind to the job.

"Why can't mother do it?" he said, "if you can't?"

"Mother is busy and hasn't a minute. I always do it for her."

"Well, why can't you go on doing it? you're accustomed to it, you see, and I don't like going out so early," said Barry, stretching himself.

"I would, and I wouldn't ask you; only, Barry, somehow I don't think I'm quite strong lately and I can hardly bring the pail, it's so heavy to me. I have to stop and rest ever so many times before I can get to the house with it."

"Well, if you stop and rest, I suppose it wont hurt you," said Barry. "I should want to stop and rest, too, myself."

His little sister was turning away, giving it up; when she was met by her father who stepped in from the entry. He looked red with anger.

"You take the pail and go get the water!" said he to his son; "and you hear me! don't you let Nettie bring in another pailful when you're at home, or I'll turn you out of the house. You lazy scoundrel! You don't deserve the bread you eat. Would you let her work for you, when you are as strong as sixty?"

Barry's grumbled words in answer were so very unsatisfactory, that Mr. Mathieson in a rage advanced toward him with uplifted fist; but Nettie sprang in between and very nearly caught the blow that was meant for her brother.

"Please, father, don't!" she cried; "please, father, don't be angry. Barry didn't think—he didn't"—

"Why didn't he?" said Mr. Mathieson. "Great lazy rascal! He wants to be flogged."

"Oh don't!" said Nettie,—"he didn't know why I asked him, or he wouldn't have refused me."

"Why did you, then?"

"Because it made my back ache so to bring it, I couldn't help asking him."

"Did you ever ask him before?"

"Never mind, please, father!" said Nettie, sweetly. "Just don't think about me, and don't be angry with Barry. It's no matter now."

"Who does think about you? Your mother don't, or she would have seen to this before."

"Mother didn't know my back ached. Father, you know she hasn't a minute, she is so busy getting breakfast in time; and she didn't know I wasn't strong enough. Father, don't tell her, please, I asked Barry. It would worry her so. Please don't, father."

"You think of folks, anyhow. You're a regular peacemaker!" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson as he turned away and left her. Nettie stood still, the flush paling on her cheek, her hand pressed to her side.

"Am I that?" she thought. "Shall I be that? Oh Lord, my Saviour, my dear Redeemer, send thy peace here!"—She was still in the same place and position when Barry came in again.

"It's wretched work!" he exclaimed, under his breath, for his father was in the next room. "It's as slippery as the plague, going down that path to the water—it's no use to have legs, for you can't hold up. I'm all froze stiff with the water I've spilled on me!"

"I know it's very slippery," said Nettie.

"And then you can't get at the water when you're there, without stepping into it—it's filled chuck full of snow and ice all over the edge. It's the most wretched work!"

"I know it, Barry," said Nettie. "I am sorry you have to do it."

"What did you make me do it for, then?" said he, angrily. "You got it your own way this time, but never mind,—I'll be up with you for it." "Barry," said his sister, "please do it just a little while for me, till I get stronger, and don't mind; and as soon as ever I can I'll do it again. But you don't know how it made me ache all through, bringing the pail up that path."

"Stuff!" said Barry. And from that time, though he did not fail to bring the water in the morning, yet Nettie saw he owed her a grudge for it all the day afterward. He was almost always away with his father, and she had little chance to win him to better feeling.

So the winter slowly passed and the spring came. Spring months came, at least; and now and then to be sure a sweet spring day, when all nature softened; the sun shone mildly, the birds sang, the air smelled sweet with the opening buds. Those days were lovely, and Nettie enjoyed them no one can tell how much. On her walk to school, it was so pleasant to be able to step slowly and not hasten to be out of the cold; and Nettie's feet did not feel ready for quick work now-a-days. It was so pleasant to hear the sparrows and other small birds, and to see them, with their cheery voices and sonsy little heads, busy and happy. And the soft air was very reviving too.

Then at home the work was easier, a great deal; and in Nettie's garret the change was wonderful. There came hours when she could sit on the great chest under her window and look out, or kneel there and pray, without danger of catching her death of cold; and instead of that, the balmy perfumed spring breeze coming into her window, and the trees budding, and the grass on the fields and hills beginning to look green, and the sunlight soft and vapoury. Such an hour—or quarter of an hour—to Nettie was worth a great deal. Her weary little frame seemed to rest in it, and her mind rested too. For those days were full not only of the goodness of God, but of the promise of his goodness. Nettie read it, and thanked him. Yet things in the household were no better.

One evening Nettie and her mother were sitting alone together. They were usually alone in the evenings, though not usually sitting down quietly with no work on hand. Nettie had her Sunday-school lesson, and was busy with that, on one side of the fire. Mrs. Mathieson on the other side sat and watched her. After a while Nettie looked up and saw her mother's gaze, no longer on her, fixed mournfully on the fire and looking through that at something else. Nettie read the look, and answered it after her own fashion. She closed her book and sang, to a very, very sweet, plaintive air,

She sang two verses, clear, glad, and sweet, as Nettie always sang; then she paused and looked at her mother.

"Do you keep up hope yet, Nettie?" said Mrs. Mathieson, sadly.

"Yes, mother," Nettie said, quietly.

"Mine gets beat out sometimes," said Mrs. Mathieson, drooping her head for an instant on her hands. "Your father's out every night now; and you know where he goes; and he cares less and less about anything else in the world but Jackson's store, and what he gets there, and the company he finds there. And he don't want much of being a ruined man."

"Yes, mother. But the Bible says we must wait on the Lord."

"Wait! yes, and I've waited; and I see you growing as thin as a shadow and as weak as a mouse; and your father don't see it; and he's let you sleep in that cold place up there all winter just to accommodate that Lumber!—I am sure he is well named."

"O mother, my garret is nice now,—on the warm days. You can't think how pretty it is out of my window—prettier than any window in the house."

"Outside, I dare say. It isn't a place fit for a cat to sleep on!"

"Mother, it's a good place to me. I don't want a better place. I don't think anybody else has a place that seems so good to me; for mother, Jesus is always there."

"I expect there'll be nothing else but heaven good enough for you after it!" said Mrs. Mathieson, with a sort of half sob. "I see you wasting away before my very eyes."

"Mother," said Nettie, cheerfully, "how can you talk so? I feel well—except now and then."

"If your father could only be made to see it!—but he can't see anything, nor hear anything. There's that house-raising to-morrow, Nettie—it's been on my mind this fortnight past, and it kills me."

"Why, mother?"

"I know how it will be," said Mrs. Mathieson; "they'll have a grand set-to after they get it up; and your father'll be in the first of it; and I somehow feel as if it would be the finishing of him. I wish almost he'd get sick—or anything, to keep him away. They make such a time after a house-raising."

"O mother, don't wish that," said Nettie; but she began to think how it would be possible to withdraw her father from the frolic with which the day's business would be ended. Mr. Mathieson was a carpenter, and a fine workman; and always had plenty of work and was much looked up to among his fellows.

Nettie began to think whether she could make any effort to keep her father from the dangers into which he was so fond of plunging; hitherto she had done nothing but pray for him; could she do anything more, with any chance of good coming of it? She thought and thought; and resolved that she must try. It did not look hopeful; there was little she could urge to lure Mr. Mathieson from his drinking companions; nothing, except her own timid affection, and the one other thing it was possible to offer him,—a good supper. How to get that was not so easy; but she consulted with her mother. Mrs. Mathieson said she used in her younger days to know how to make waffles,[3] and Mr. Mathieson used to think they were the best things that ever were made; now if Mrs. Moss, a neighbour, would lend her waffle-iron, and she could get a few eggs,—she believed she could manage it still. "But we haven't the eggs, child," she said; "and I don't believe any power under heaven can get him to come away from that raising frolic."

Nor did Nettie. It was to no power under heaven that she trusted. But she must use her means. She easily got the iron from Mrs. Moss. Then she borrowed the eggs from Mme. Auguste, who in Lent time always had them; then she watched with grave eyes and many a heart prayer the while, the mixing and making of the waffles.

"How do you manage the iron, mother?"

"Why it is made hot," said Mrs. Mathieson, "very hot, and buttered; and then when the batter is light you pour it in, and clap it together, and put it in the stove."

"But how can you pour it in, mother? I don't see how you can fill the iron."

"Why, you can't, child; you fill one half, and shut it together: and when it bakes it rises up and fills the other half. You'll see."

The first thing Nettie asked when she came home from school in the afternoon was, if the waffles were light? She never saw any look better, Mrs. Mathieson said; "but I forgot, child, we ought to have cinnamon and white sugar to eat on them;—it was so that your father used to admire them; they wont be waffles without sugar and cinnamon, I'm afraid he'll think;—but I don't believe you'll get him home to think anything about them."

Mrs. Mathieson ended with a sigh. Nettie said nothing; she went round the room, putting it in particularly nice order; then set the table. When all that was right, she went up to her garret, and knelt down and prayed that God would take care of her and bless her errand. She put the whole matter in the Lord's hands; then she dressed herself in her hood and cloak and went down to her mother. Mr. Mathieson had not come home to dinner, being busy with the house-raising; so they had had no opportunity to invite him, and Nettie was now on her way to do it.

"It's turned a bad afternoon; I'm afraid it aint fit for you to go, Nettie."

"I don't mind," said Nettie. "May be I'll get some sugar and cinnamon, mother, before I come back."

"Well, you know where the raising is? it's out on the Shallonway road, on beyond Mrs. August's, a good bit."

Nettie nodded, and went out; and as the door closed on her grave, sweet little face, Mrs. Mathieson felt a great strain on her heart. She would have been glad to relieve herself by tears, but it was a dry pain that would not be relieved so. She went to the window, and looked out at the weather.