Little Nettie; or, Home Sunshine

"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 bed-side 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.' Oh, 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.

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.

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 hill 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.

Ashamed of her giving way, Mrs. Mathieson checked herself 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 ate 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; then drew her 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 past—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 won't 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 a 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. When the reading ceased, and 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 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.

"There's a rest for little children.
Above the bright blue sky,
Who love the blessed Saviour,
And to His Father cry,
A rest from every trouble,
From sin and danger free,
There every little pilgrim
Shall rest eternally.