THE WAFFLES.

The early part of the day had been brilliant and beautiful; then, March-like, it had changed about, gathered up a whole sky-full of clouds, and turned at last to snowing. The large feathery flakes were falling now, fast; melting as fast as they fell; making everything wet and chill, in the air and under the foot. Nettie had no overshoes; she was accustomed to get her feet wet very often, so that was nothing new. She hugged herself in her brown cloak, on which the beautiful snowflakes rested white a moment and then melted away, gradually wetting the covering of her arms and shoulders in a way that would reach through by and by. Nettie thought little of it. What was she thinking of? She was comforting herself with the thought of that strong and blessed Friend who has promised to be always with his servants; and remembering his promise—"they shall not be ashamed that wait for me." What did the snow and the wet matter to Nettie? Yet she looked too much like a snow-flake herself when she reached Mr. Jackson's store and went in. The white frosting had lodged all round her old black silk hood and even edged the shoulders of her brown cloak; and the white little face within looked just as pure.

Mr. Jackson looked at her with more than usual attention; and when Nettie asked him if he would let her have a shilling's worth of fine white sugar and cinnamon, and trust her till the next week for the money, he made not the slightest difficulty; but measured or weighed it out for her directly, and even said he would trust her for more than that. So Nettie thanked him, and went on to the less easy part of her errand. Her heart began to beat a little bit now.

The feathery snowflakes fell thicker and made everything wetter than ever; it was very raw and chill, and few people were abroad. Nettie went on, past the little bakewoman's house, and past all the thickly built part of the village. Then came houses more scattered; large handsome houses with beautiful gardens and grounds and handsome garden palings along the roadside. Past one or two of these, and then there was a space of wild ground; and here Mr. Jackson was putting up a new house for himself, and meant to have a fine place. The wild bushes grew in a thick hedge along by the fence, but over the tops of them Nettie could see the new timbers of the frame that the carpenters had been raising that day. She went on till she came to an opening in the hedge and fence as well, and then the new building was close before her. The men were at work yet, finishing their day's business; the sound of hammering rung sharp on all sides of the frame; some were up on ladders, some were below. Nettie walked slowly up and then round the place, searching for her father. At last she found him. He and Barry, who was learning his father's trade, were on the ground at one side of the frame, busy as bees. Talking was going on roundly too, as well as hammering, and Nettie drew near and stood a few minutes without any one noticing her. She was not in a hurry to interrupt the work nor to tell her errand; she waited.

Barry saw her first, but ungraciously would not speak to her nor for her. If she was there for anything, he said to himself, it was for some spoil-sport; and one pail of water a day was enough for him. Mr. Mathieson was looking the other way.

"I say, Mathieson," called one of the men from the inside of the frame, "I s'pose 'taint worth carrying any of this stuff—Jackson'll have enough without it?" The words were explained to Nettie's horror by a jug in the man's hands, which he lifted to his lips.

"Jackson will do something handsome in that way to-night," said Nettie's father; "or he'll not do as he's done by, such a confounded wet evening. But I've stood to my word, and I expect he'll stand to his'n."

"He gave his word there was to be oysters, warn't it?" called another man from the top of the ladder.

"Punch and oysters," said Mathieson, hammering away, "or I've raised the last frame I ever will raise, for him. I expect he'll stand it."

"Oysters aint much count," said another speaker. "I'd rather have a slice of good sweet pork any day."

"Father," said Nettie. She had come close up to him, but she trembled. What possible chance could she have?

"Hollo!" said Mr. Mathieson, turning suddenly. "Nettie!—what's to pay, girl?"

He spoke roughly, and Nettie saw that his face was red. She trembled all over, but she spoke as bravely as she could.

"Father, I am come to invite you home to supper to-night. Mother and I have a particular reason to want to see you. Will you come?"

"Come where?" said Mr. Mathieson, but half understanding her.

"Come home to tea, father. I came to ask you. Mother has made something you like."

"I'm busy, child. Go home. I'm going to supper at Jackson's. Go home." He turned to his hammering again. But Nettie stood still in the snow and waited.

"Father—" she said, after a minute, coming yet closer and speaking more low.

"What? Aint you gone?" exclaimed Mr. Mathieson.

"Father," said Nettie, softly, "mother has made waffles for you,—and you used to like them so much, she says; and they are light and beautiful and just ready to bake. Wont you come and have them with us? Mother says they'll be very nice."

"Why didn't she make 'em another time," grumbled Barry,—"when we weren't going to punch and oysters? That's a better game!"

If Mathieson had not been drinking he might have been touched by the sight of Nettie; so very white and delicate her little face looked, trembling and eager, within that border of her black hood on which the snow crystals lay, a very doubtful and unwholesome embroidery. She looked as if she was going to melt and disappear like one of them; and perhaps Mr. Mathieson did feel the effect of her presence, but he felt it only to be vexed and irritated; and Barry's suggestion fell into ready ground.

"I tell you, go home!" he said, roughly. "What are you doing here? I tell you I'm not coming home—I'm engaged to supper to-night, and I'm not going to miss it for any fool's nonsense. Go home!"

Nettie's lip trembled, but that was all the outward show of the agitation within. She would not have delayed to obey, if her father had been quite himself; in his present condition she thought perhaps the next word might undo the last; she could not go without another trial. She waited an instant and again said softly and pleadingly, "Father, I've been and got cinnamon and sugar for you,—all ready."

"Cinnamon and sugar"—he cursed with a great oath; and turning gave Nettie a violent push from him, that was half a blow. "Go home!" he repeated—"go home! and mind your business; and don't take it upon you to mind mine."

Nettie reeled, staggered, and coming blindly against one or two timbers that lay on the ground, she fell heavily over them. Nobody saw her. Mr. Mathieson had not looked after giving her the push, and Barry had gone over to help somebody who called him. Nettie felt dizzy and sick; but she picked herself up, and wet and downhearted took the road home again. She was sadly downhearted. Her little bit of a castle in the air had tumbled all to pieces; and what was more, it had broken down upon her. A hope, faint indeed, but a hope, had kept her up through all her exertions that day; she felt very feeble, now the hope was gone; and that her father should have laid a rough hand on her, hurt her sorely. It hurt her bitterly; he had never done so before; and the cause why he came to do it now, rather made it more sorrowful than less so to Nettie's mind.

She could not help a few salt tears from falling; and for a moment Nettie's faith trembled. Feeling weak, and broken, and miserable, the thought came coldly across her mind, would the Lord not hear her, after all? It was but a moment of faith-trembling, but it made her sick. There was more to do that; the push and fall over the timbers had jarred her more than she knew at the moment. Nettie walked slowly back upon her road till she neared the shop of Mme. Auguste; then she felt herself growing very ill, and just reached the Frenchwoman's door to faint away on her steps.

She did not remain there two seconds. Mme. Auguste had seen her go by an hour before, and now sat at her window looking out to amuse herself, but with a special intent to see and waylay that pale child on her repassing the house. She saw the little black hood reappear, and started to open the door, just in time to see Nettie fall down at her threshold. As instantly two willing arms were put under her, and lifted up the child and bore her into the house. Then Madame took off her hood, touched her lips with brandy and her brow with cologne water, and chafed her hands. She had lain Nettie on the floor of the inner room and put a pillow under her head; the strength which had brought her so far having failed there, and proved unequal to lift her again and put her on the bed. Nettie presently came to, opened her eyes, and looked at her nurse.

"Why, my Nettie," said the little woman, "what is this, my child? what is the matter with you?"

"I don't know," said Nettie, scarce over her breath.

"Do you feel better now, mon enfant?"

Nettie did not, and did not speak. Mme. Auguste mixed a spoonful of brandy and water and made her take it. That revived her a little.

"I must get up and go home," were the first words she said.

"You will lie still there, till I get some person to lift you on the bed," said the Frenchwoman, decidedly. "I have not more strength than a fly. What ails you, Nettie?"

"I don't know."

"Take one spoonful more. What did you have for dinner to-day?"

"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise herself. "Mother will want me—she'll want me." "You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow;—"and I will find some person to carry you home—or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."

Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief, that she had for a moment, and under any discouragement, failed to trust fully the Lord's promises. She trusted them now. Let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek him" had a blessing in store for her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, he heard." "Our heart shall rejoice in him, because we have trusted in his holy name." Prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.

Meanwhile Mme. Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like herself now, only very pale.

"I must have cut my lip somehow," she said; "there's blood on my handkerchief. How did I come in here?"

"Blood!" said the Frenchwoman,—"where did you cut yourself, Nettie? Let me look!"

Which she did, with a face so anxious and eager that Nettie smiled at her. Her own brow was as quiet and placid as ever it was.

"How did I get in here, Mrs. August?"

The Frenchwoman, however, did not answer her. Instead of which she went to her cupboard and got a cup and spoon, and then from a little saucepan on the stove dipped out some riz-au-gras again.

"What did you have for dinner, Nettie? you did not tell me."

"Not much—I wasn't hungry," said Nettie. "O, I must get up and go home to mother."

"You shall eat something first," said her friend; and she raised Nettie's head upon another pillow, and began to feed her with the spoon. "It is good for you. You must take it. Where is your father? Don't talk, but tell me. I will do everything right."

"He is at work on Mr. Jackson's new house."

"Is he there to-day?"

"Yes."

Mme. Auguste gave her all the "broth" in the cup, then bade her keep still, and went to the shop window. It was time for the men to be quitting work, she knew; she watched for the carpenters to come. If they were not gone by already!—how should she know? Even as she thought this, a sound of rude steps and men's voices came from down the road; and the Frenchwoman went to her door and opened it. The men came along, a scattered group of four or five.

"Is Mr. Mat'ieson there?" she said. Mme. Auguste hardly knew him by sight. "Men, I say! is Mr. Mat'ieson there?"

"George, that's you; you're wanted," said one of the group, looking back; and a fine-looking, tall man paused at Madame's threshold.

"Are you Mr. Mat'ieson?" said the Frenchwoman.

"Yes, ma'am. That's my name."

"Will you come in? I have something to speak to you. Your little daughter Nettie is very sick."

"Sick!" exclaimed the man. "Nettie!—Where is she?"

"She is here. Hush! you must not say nothing to her, but she is very sick. She is come fainting at my door, and I have got her in here; but she wants to go home, and I think you had better tell her she will not go home, but she will stay here with me to-night."

"Where is she?" said Mr. Mathieson; and he stepped in with so little ceremony that the mistress of the house gave way before him. He looked round the shop. "She is not here—you shall see her—but you must not tell her she is sick," said the Frenchwoman, anxiously.

"Where is she?" repeated Mr. Mathieson, with a tone and look which made Mme. Auguste afraid he would burst the doors if she did not open them. She opened the inner door without further preparation, and Mr. Mathieson walked in. By the fading light he saw Nettie lying on the floor at his feet. He was thoroughly himself now; sobered in more ways than one. He stood still when he had got there, and spoke not a word.

"Father," said Nettie, softly.

He stooped down over her. "What do you want, Nettie?"

"Can't I go home?"

"She must better not go home to-night!" began Mme. Auguste, earnestly. "It is so wet and cold! She will stay here with me to-night, Mr. Mat'ieson. You will tell her that it is best."

But Nettie said, "Please let me go home! mother will be so troubled." She spoke little, for she felt weak; but her father saw her very eager in the request. He stooped and put his strong arms under her, and lifted her up.

"Have you got anything you can put over her?" he said, looking round the room. "I'll fetch it back."

Seeing that the matter was quite taken out of her hands, the kind little Frenchwoman was very quick in her arrangements. She put on Nettie's head a warm hood of her own; then round her and over her she wrapped a thick woollen counterpane, that to be sure would have let no snow through if the distance to be travelled had been twice as far. As she folded and arranged the thick stuff round Nettie's head, so as to shield even her face from the outer air, she said, half whispering—

"I would not tell nothing to mother about your lip; it is not much. I wish I could keep you. Now she is ready, Mr. Mat'ieson."

And Mr. Mathieson stalked out of the house, and strode along the road with firm, swift steps, till, past Jackson's, and past the turning, he came to his own door, and carried Nettie upstairs. He never said a word the whole way. Nettie was too muffled up, and too feeble to speak; so the first word was when he had come in and sat down in a chair, which he did with Nettie still in his arms. Mrs. Mathieson, standing white and silent, waited to see what was the matter; she had no power to ask a question. Her husband unfolded the counterpane that was wrapped round Nettie's head; and there she was, looking very like her usual self, only exceedingly pale. As soon as she caught sight of her mother's face, Nettie would have risen and stood up, but her father's arms held her fast. "What do you want, Nettie?" he asked. It was the first word.

"Nothing, father," said Nettie, "only lay me on the bed, please; and then you and mother have supper."

Mr. Mathieson took her to the bed and laid her gently down, removing the snow-wet counterpane which was round her.

"What is the matter?" faltered Mrs. Mathieson. "Nothing much, mother," said Nettie, quietly; "only I was a little sick. Wont you bake the waffles and have supper?"

"What will you have?" said her father.

"Nothing—I've had something. I feel nicely now," said Nettie. "Mother, wont you have supper, and let me see you?"

Mrs. Mathieson's strength had well-nigh deserted her; but Nettie's desire was urgent, and seeing that her husband had seated himself by the bedside, and seemed to have no idea of being anywhere but at home that evening, she at length gathered up her faculties to do what was the best thing to be done, and went about preparing the supper. Nettie's eyes watched her, and Mr. Mathieson when he thought himself safe watched her. He did not look like the same man, so changed and sobered was the expression of his face. Mrs. Mathieson was devoured by fear, even in observing this; but Nettie was exceedingly happy. She did not feel anything but weakness: and she lay on her pillow watching the waffles baked and sugared, and then watching them eaten, wondering and rejoicing within herself at the way in which her father had been brought to eat his supper there at home after all. She was the only one that enjoyed anything, though her father and mother ate to please her. Mrs. Mathieson had asked an account of Nettie's illness, and got a very unsatisfactory one. She had been faint, her husband said; he had found her at Mrs. August's and brought her home; that was about all. After supper he came and sat by Nettie again; and said she was to sleep there, and he would go up and take Nettie's place in the attic. Nettie in vain said she was well enough to go upstairs; her father cut the question short, and bade Mrs. Mathieson go up and get anything Nettie wanted. When she had left the room, he stooped his head down to Nettie and said low—

"What was that about your lip?"

Nettie started; she thought he would fancy it had been done, if done at all, when he gave her the push at the frame-house. But she did not, dare not, answer. She said it was only that she had found a little blood on her handkerchief, and supposed she might have cut her lip when she fell on Mrs. August's threshold, when she had fainted.

"Show me your handkerchief," said her father. Nettie obeyed. He looked at it, and looked close at her lips, to find where they might have been wounded; and Nettie was sorry to see how much he felt, for he even looked pale himself as he turned away from her. But he was as gentle and kind as he could be; Nettie had never seen him so; and when he went off up to bed and Nettie was drawn into her mother's arms to go to sleep, she was very, very happy. But she did not tell her hopes or her joys to her mother; she only told her thanks to the Lord; and that she did till she fell asleep.

The next morning Nettie was well enough to get up and dress herself. That was all she was suffered to do by father or mother. Mr. Mathieson sent Barry for water and wood, and himself looked after the fire while Mrs. Mathieson was busy; all the rest he did was to take Nettie in his arms and sit holding her till breakfast was ready. He did not talk, and he kept Barry quiet; he was like a different man. Nettie, feeling indeed very weak, could only sit with her head on her father's shoulder, and wonder, and think, and repeat quiet prayers in her heart. She was very pale yet, and it distressed Mr. Mathieson to see that she could not eat. So he laid her on the bed, when he was going to his work, and told her she was to stay there and be still, and he would bring her something good when he came home.

The day was strangely long and quiet to Nettie. Instead of going to school and flying about at home doing all sorts of things, she lay on the bed and followed her mother with her eyes as she moved about the room at her work. The eyes often met Mrs. Mathieson's eyes; and once Nettie called her mother to her bedside.

"Mother, what is the matter with you?"

Mrs. Mathieson stood still, and had some trouble to speak. At last she told Nettie she was sorry to see her lying there and not able to be up and around. "Mother," said Nettie, expressively,—"'There is rest for the weary.'"

"O Nettie," said her mother, beginning to cry,—"you are all I have got!—my blessed one!"

"Hush, mother," said Nettie; "I am not your blessed one,—you forget; and I am not all you have got. Where is Jesus, mother? O mother, 'rest in the Lord!'"

"I don't deserve to," said Mrs. Mathieson, trying to stop her tears.

"I feel very well," Nettie went on; "only weak, but I shall be well directly. And I am so happy, mother. Wont you go on and get dinner? and mother, just do that;—'rest in the Lord.'"

Nettie was not able to talk much, and Mrs. Mathieson checked herself and went on with her work, as she begged. When her father came home at night he was as good as his word, and brought home some fresh oysters, that he thought would tempt Nettie's appetite; but it was much more to her that he stayed quietly at home and never made a move toward going out. Eating was not in Nettie's line just now; the little kind Frenchwoman had been to see her in the course of the day and brought some delicious rolls and a jug of riz-au-gras, which was what seemed to suit Nettie's appetite best of all.