THE GOLDEN CITY.

Several days went on; she did not feel sick, and she was a little stronger; but appetite and colour were wanting. Her father would not let her do anything; he would not let her go up to her garret to sleep, though Nettie pleaded for it, fearing he must be uncomfortable. He said it was fitter for him than for her, though he made faces about it. He always came home and stayed at home now, and especially attended to Nettie; his wages came home too, and he brought every day something to try to tempt her to eat; and he was quiet and grave and kind—not the same person.

Mrs. Mathieson in the midst of all her distress about Nettie began to draw some free breaths. But her husband thought only of his child; unless, perhaps, of himself; and drew none. Regularly after supper he would draw Nettie to his arms and sit with her head on his shoulder; silent generally, only he would sometimes ask her what she would like. The first time he put this inquiry when Mr. Lumber was out of the way, Nettie answered by asking him to read to her. Mr. Mathieson hesitated a little, not unkindly, and then read; a chapter in the Bible, of course, for Nettie wished to hear nothing else. And after that he often read to her; for Mr. Lumber kept up his old habits and preferred livelier company, and so was always out in the evenings.

So several days passed; and when Saturday came, Mr. Mathieson lost half a day's work and took a long walk to a farm where the people kept pigeons; and brought home one for Nettie's supper. However, she could fancy but very little of it.

"What shall I do for you?" said her father. "You go round like a shadow, and you don't eat much more. What shall I do that you would like?"

This time there was nobody in the room. Nettie lifted her head from his shoulder and met his eyes.

"If you would come to Jesus, father!"

"What?" said Mr. Mathieson.—"I don't know anything about that, Nettie. I aint fit."

"Jesus will take you anyhow, father, if you will come."

"We'll talk about that some other time," said Mr. Mathieson,—"when you get well."

"But suppose I don't get well, father?"

"Eh?——" said Mr. Mathieson, startled.

"Perhaps I shan't get well," said Nettie, her quiet, grave face not changing in the least; "then I shall go to the golden city; and father, I shall be looking for you till you come."

Mr. Mathieson did not know how to answer her; he only groaned.

"Father, will you come?" Nettie repeated, a little faint streak of colour in her cheeks showing the earnestness of the feeling at work. But her words had a mingled accent of tenderness and hope which was irresistible. "Yes, Nettie—if you will show me how," her father answered, in a lowered voice. And Nettie's eye gave one bright flash of joy. It was as if all her strength had gone out at that flash, and she was obliged to lean back on her father's shoulder and wait; joy seemed to have taken away her breath. He waited too, without knowing why she did.

"Father, the only thing to do is to come to Jesus."

"What does that mean, Nettie? You know I don't know."

"It means, father, that Jesus is holding out his hand with a promise to you. Now if you will take the promise,—that is all."

"What is the promise, Nettie?"

Nettie waited, gathered breath, for the talk made her heart beat; and then said, "'This is the promise that he hath promised us, even eternal life.'"

"How can a sinful man take such a promise?" said Mr. Mathieson, with suppressed feeling. "That is for people like you, Nettie, not me."

"Oh, Jesus has bought it!" cried Nettie; "it's free. It's without price. You may have it if you'll believe in him and love him, father. I can't talk."

She had talked too much, or the excitement had been too strong for her. Her words were broken off by coughing, and she remarked that her lip must have bled again. Her father laid her on the bed, and from that time for a number of days she was kept as quiet as possible; for her strength had failed anew and yet more than at first.

For two weeks she hardly moved from the bed. But except that she was so very pale, she did not look very ill; her face wore just its own patient and happy expression. Her father would not now let her talk to him; but he did everything she asked. He read to her in the Bible; Nettie would turn over the leaves to the place she wanted, and then point it out to him with a look of life, and love, and pleasure, that were like a whole sermon; and her father read first that sermon and then the chapter. He went to church as she asked him; and without her asking him, after the first Sunday. Nettie stayed at home on the bed and sang psalms in her heart.

After those two weeks there was a change for the better. Nettie felt stronger, looked more as she used to look, and got up and even went about a little. The weather was changing too, now. April days were growing soft and green; trees budding and grass freshening up, and birds all alive in the branches; and above all the air and the light, the wonderful soft breath of spring and sunshine of spring, made people forget that winter had ever been harsh or severe.

Nettie went out and took little walks in the sun, which seemed to do her good; and she begged so hard to be allowed to go to her garret again, that her father took pity on her; sent Mr. Lumber away, and gave her her old nice little room on the same floor with the others. Her mother cleaned it and put it in order, and Nettie felt too happy when she found herself mistress of it again and possessed of a quiet place where she could read and pray alone. With windows open, how sweetly the spring walked in there, and made it warm, and bright, and fragrant too. But Nettie had a tenderness for her old garret as long as she lived.

"It had got to be full of the Bible, mother," she said one day. "You know it was too cold often to sit up there; so I used to go to bed and lie awake and think of things,—at night when the stars were shining,—and in the morning in the moonlight sometimes."

"But how was the garret full of the Bible, Nettie?"

"Oh, I had a way of looking at some part of the roof or the window when I was thinking; when I couldn't have the Bible in my hands."

"Well, how did that make it?"

"Why the words seemed to be all over, mother. There was one big nail I used often to be looking at when I was thinking over texts, and a knot-hole in one of the wainscot boards; my texts used to seem to go in and out of that knot-hole. And somehow, mother, I got so that I hardly ever opened the shutter without thinking of those words—'Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth the truth may enter in.' I don't know why, but I used to think of it. And out of that window I used to see the stars, and look at the golden city."

"Look at it!" said Mrs. Mathieson.

"In my thoughts, you know, mother. Oh, mother, how happy we are, that are going to the city! It seems to me as if all that sunlight was a curtain let down, and the city is just on the other side."

It was a lovely spring day, the windows open, and the country flooded with a soft misty sunlight, through which the tender greens of the opening leaf began to appear. Nettie was lying on the bed in her room, her mother at work by her side. Mrs. Mathieson looked at her earnest eyes, and then wistfully out of the window where they were gazing.

"What makes you think so much about it?" she said, at last.

"I don't know; I always do. I used to think about it last winter, looking out at the stars. Why, mother, you know Jesus is there; how can I help thinking about it?"

"He is here, too," murmured poor Mrs. Mathieson.

"Mother," said Nettie, tenderly, "aren't those good words,—'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?' I have thought of those words, very often."

Nettie wished she could sing, for she had often seen singing comfort her mother; but she had not the power to-day. She gave her the best she could. Her words, however, constantly carried hurt and healing together to her mother's mind. But when Nettie went on to repeat softly the verse of a hymn that follows, she was soothed, notwithstanding the hinted meaning in the words. So sweet was the trust of the hymn, so unruffled the trust of the speaker. The words were from a little bit of a book of translations of German hymns which Mr. Folke, her Sunday-school teacher, had brought her, and which was never out of Nettie's hand.

Slowly she said the words, with her usual sober, placid face; and Mrs. Mathieson was mute.

For some weeks, as the spring breathed warmer and warmer, Nettie revived; so much that her mother at times felt encouraged about her. Mr. Mathieson was never deceived. Whether his former neglect of his child had given him particular keenness of vision in all that concerned her now, or for whatever reason, he saw well enough and saw constantly that Nettie was going to leave him. There was never a wish of hers uncared for now; there was not a straw suffered to lie in her path, that he could take out of it. He went to church, and he read at home; he changed his behaviour to her mother as well as to herself, and he brought Barry to his bearings. What more did Nettie want?

One Sunday, late in May, Nettie had stayed at home alone while the rest of the family were gone to church, the neighbour down stairs having promised to look after her. She needed no looking after, though; she spent her time pleasantly with her Bible and her hymns, till feeling tired she went to her room to lie down. The windows were open; it was a very warm day; the trees were in leaf, and from her bed Nettie could only see the sunshine in the leaves, and in one place through a gap in the trees, a bit of bright hill-side afar off. The birds sang merrily, and nothing else sounded at all; it was very Sabbath stillness. So Nettie lay till she heard the steps of the church-goers returning; and presently, after her mother had been there and gone, her father came into her room to see her. He kissed her, and said a few words, and then went to the window and stood there looking out. Both were silent some time, while the birds sang on.

"Father," said Nettie.

He turned instantly, and asked her what she wanted.

"Father," said Nettie, "the streets of the city are all of gold."

"Well," said he, meeting her grave eyes, "and what then, Nettie?"

"Only, I was thinking, if the streets are gold, how clean must the feet be that walk on them!"

He knew what her intent eyes meant, and he sat down by her bedside and laid his face in his hands. "I am a sinful man, Nettie!" he said.

"Father, 'this is a faithful saying, that Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners.'"

"I don't deserve he should save me, Nettie."

"Well, father, ask him to save you, because you don't deserve it."

"What sort of a prayer would that be?"

"The right one, father; for Jesus does deserve it, and for his sake is the only way. If you deserved it, you wouldn't want Jesus; but now 'he is our peace.' O father listen, listen, to what the Bible says." She had been turning the leaves of her Bible, and read low and earnestly—"'Now we are ambassadors for God, as though God did beseech you by us; we pray you, in Christ's stead, be ye reconciled to God.' Oh, father, aren't you willing to be reconciled to him?"

"God knows I am willing!" said Mr. Mathieson.

"He is willing, I am sure," said Nettie. "'He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon him.' He has made peace; he is the Prince of Peace; he will give it to you, father."

There was a long silence. Mr. Mathieson never stirred. Nor Nettie, hardly. The words were true of her,—"He that believeth shall not make haste." She waited, looking at him. Then he said, "What must I do, Nettie?"

"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ." "How, child?"

"Father, the best way is to ask him, and he will tell you how. If you are only willing to be his servant—if you are willing to give yourself to the Lord Jesus—are you willing, father?"

"I am willing, anything!—if he will have me," said Mr. Mathieson.

"Then go, father!" said Nettie, eagerly;—"go and ask him, and he will teach you how; he will, he has promised. Go, father, and ask the Lord—will you? Go now."

Her father remained still a moment—then he rose up and went out of the room, and she heard his steps going up to the unused attic. Nettie crossed her hands upon her breast, and smiled. She was too much exhausted to pray, otherwise than with a thought.

Her mother soon came in, and startled by her flushed look, asked how she did. "Well," Nettie said. Mrs. Mathieson was uneasy, and brought her something to take, which Nettie couldn't eat; and insisted on her lying still and trying to go to sleep. Nettie thought she could not sleep; and she did not for some time; then slumber stole over her, and she slept sweetly and quietly while the hours of the summer afternoon rolled away. Her mother watched beside her for a long while before she awoke; and during that time read surely in Nettie's delicate cheek and too delicate colour, what was the sentence of separation. She read it, and smothered the cry of her heart, for Nettie's sake.

The sun was descending toward the western hilly country, and long level rays of light were playing in the tree-tops, when Nettie awoke.

"Are you there, mother?" she said—"and is the Sunday so near over! How I have slept."

"How do you feel, dear?"

"Why, I feel well," said Nettie. "It has been a good day. The gold is all in the air here—not in the streets." She had half raised herself and was sitting looking out of the window.

"Do you think of that city all the time?" inquired Mrs. Mathieson, half jealously. "Mother," said Nettie, slowly, still looking out at the sunlight, "would you be very sorry, and very much surprised, if I were to go there before long?"

"I should not be very much surprised, Nettie," answered her mother, in a tone that told all the rest. Her child's eye turned to her sorrowfully and understandingly.

"You'll not be very long before you'll be there too," she said. "Now kiss me, mother."

Could Mrs. Mathieson help it? She took Nettie in her arms, but instead of the required kiss there came a burst of passion that bowed her head in convulsive grief against her child's breast. The pent-up sorrow, the great burden of love and tenderness, the unspoken gratitude, the unspeakable longing of heart, all came in those tears and sobs that shook her as if she had forgotten on what a frail support she was half resting. Nay, nature must speak this one time; she had taken the matter into her own hands, and she was not to be struggled with, for a while. Nettie bore it—how did she bear it? With a little trembling of lip at first; then that passed, and with quiet sorrow she saw and felt the suffering which had broken forth so stormily. True to her office, the little peacemaker tried her healing art. Softly stroking her mother's face and head while she spoke, she said very softly and slowly,

"Mother, you know it is Jesus that said, 'Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' You have the mourning now, but he will find the comfort by and by."

Ashamed of her giving way, and of her having left it to the weak one to act the part of the strong, Mrs. Mathieson checked herself, held up her head and dried her tears. Nettie lay down wearily.

"I will stay here, mother," she said, "till tea is ready; and then I will come." Mrs. Mathieson went to attend to it.

When Nettie went into the other room, her father was sitting there. She said nothing however, and even for some time did not look in his face to see what he might have to say to her. She took a cup of tea and a biscuit, and eat an egg that her mother had boiled for her. It was when supper was over, and they had moved from the table and Mrs. Mathieson was busy about, that Nettie turned her eyes once more upon her father, with their soft, full inquiry. He looked grave, subdued, tender; she had heard that in his voice already; not as she had ever seen him look before. He met her eyes, and answered them.

"I understand it now, Nettie," he said.

It was worth while to see Nettie's smile. She was not a child very given to expressing her feelings, and when pleasure reached that point with her, it was something to see such a breaking of light upon a face that generally dwelt in twilight sobriety. Her father drew her close, close within his arms; and without one word Nettie sat there, till, for very happiness and weariness, she fell asleep; and he carried her to her room.

There was a great calm fell upon the family for a little time thereafter. It was like one of those spring days that were passed—full of misty light, and peace, and hope, and promise. It was a breath of rest. But they knew it would end—for a time; and one summer day the end came. It was a Sunday again, and again Nettie was lying on her bed, enjoying in her weakness the loveliness of the air and beauty without. Her mother was with her, and knew that she had been failing very fast for some days. Nettie knew it too.

"How soon do you think father will be home?" she said.

"Not before another hour, I think," said Mrs. Mathieson. "Why, what of it, Nettie?"

"Nothing——" said Nettie, doubtfully. "I'd like him to come."

"It wont be long," said her mother.

"Mother, I am going to give you my little dear hymn book," said Nettie, presently; "and I want to read you this hymn now, and then you will think of me when you read it. May I?"

"Read," said Mrs. Mathieson; and she put up her hand to hide her face from Nettie. Nettie did not look, however; her eyes were on her hymn, and she read it, low and sweetly—very sweetly—through. There was no tremor in her voice, but now and then a little accent of joy or a shade of tenderness.

Mrs. Mathieson's head bowed as the hymn went on, but she dared not give way to tears, and Nettie's manner half awed and half charmed her into quietness. It was not likely she would forget those words ever. When the reading had ceased, and in a few minutes Mrs. Mathieson felt that she could look toward Nettie again, she saw that the book had fallen from her hand and that she was almost fainting. Alarmed instantly, she called for help, and got one of the inmates of the house to go after Mr. Mathieson. But Nettie sank so fast, they were afraid he would not come in time. The messenger came back without having been able to find him; for after the close of the services in the church Mr. Mathieson had gone out of his way on an errand of kindness. Nettie herself was too low to ask for him, if indeed she was conscious that he was not there. They could not tell; she lay without taking any notice.

But just as the last rays of the sun were bright in the leaves of the trees and on the hills in the distance, Mr. Mathieson's step was heard. One of the neighbours met him and told him what he must expect; and he came straight to Nettie's room. And when he bent down over her and spoke, Nettie knew his voice and opened her eyes, and once more smiled. It was like a smile from another country. Her eyes were fixed on him. Mr. Mathieson bent yet nearer and put his lips to hers; then he tried to speak.

"My little peacemaker, what shall I do without you?"

Nettie drew a long, long breath. "Peace—is—made," she slowly said.

And the peacemaker was gone.

THE END.

[1] See Frontispiece.

[2] A festival common in America on the completion of a house.

[3] Waffles, a species of sweet-cake used on such festivals in America.

London: The Broadway, Ludgate Hill.
New York: 416, Broome Street.