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,

"I heard the voice of Jesus say, Come unto me and rest: Lay down, thou weary one, lay down Thy head upon my breast. I came to Jesus as I was, Weary, and worn, and sad, I found in him a resting-place, And he has made me glad.

"I heard the voice of Jesus say, I am this dark world's light; Look unto me—thy morn shall rise, And all thy day be bright. I looked to Jesus, and I found In him my star, my sun; And in that light of life I'll walk Till travelling days are done."

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."

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

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.



CHAPTER VII.

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.



CHAPTER VIII.

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.

"'As God leads me so my heart In faith shall rest. No grief nor fear my soul shall part From Jesus' breast. In sweet belief I know What way my life doth go— Since God permitteth so— That must be best.'"

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.

"'Meet again! yes, we shall meet again, Though now we part in pain! His people all Together Christ shall call. Hallelujah!

"'Soon the days of absence shall be o'er, And thou shalt weep no more; Our meeting day Shall wipe all tears away. Hallelujah!

"'Now I go with gladness to our home, With gladness thou shalt come; There I will wait To meet thee at heaven's gate. Hallelujah!

"'Dearest! what delight again to share Our sweet communion there! To walk among The holy ransomed throng. Hallelujah!

"'Here, in many a grief, our hearts were one, But there in joys alone; Joys fading never, Increasing, deepening ever. Hallelujah!

"'Not to mortal sight can it be given To know the bliss of heaven; But thou shalt be Soon there, and sing with me, Hallelujah!

"'Meet again! yes, we shall meet again, Though now we part in vain! His people all Together Christ shall call. Hallelujah!'"

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.



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AMY CARLTON.

ROBINSON CRUSOE.

LAURA TEMPLE.

OUR NATIVE LAND.

HARRY AND HIS HOMES.

SOLITARY HUNTER. By Palliser.

BUNDLE OF STICKS; or, Love and Hate. By J. & E. Kirby.

FAMILY PICTURES FROM THE BIBLE.

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SANDFORD AND MERTON.

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JOHN HARTLEY.

THE WONDER BOOK.

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ARCHIE BLAKE.

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ADVENTURES OF JOSEPH HAWSEPIPE.

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MAX FRERE; Or, Return Good for Evil.

RAINBOWS IN SPRINGTIDE.

THE CHILD'S FIRST BOOK OF NATURAL HISTORY.

FLORENCE THE ORPHAN.

THE CASTLE AND THE COTTAGE. By Mrs. Perring.

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HELEN'S FAULT. By the Author of "Adelaide Lindsay."

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LITTLE POEMS FOR LITTLE READERS.

MINNIE'S LEGACY.

NEIGHBOURLY LOVE.

KITTY'S VICTORY.

ELISE AND HER RABBITS.

HAPPY CHARLIE.

ANNIE PRICE.

THE LITTLE OXLEYS. By Mrs. W. Denzey Burton.

BOOK OF ONE SYLLABLE. With Coloured Plates.

LITTLE HELPS. With Coloured Plates.

UNCLE TOM'S CABIN, for Children.

AUNT MARGARET'S VISIT.

KEEPER'S TRAVELS IN SEARCH OF HIS MASTER.

RICHMOND'S ANNALS OF THE POOR.

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BLANCHE AND AGNES.

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CINDERELLA.*

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OLD TESTAMENT ALPHABET.

THREE LITTLE KITTENS.

THE HISTORY OF FIVE LITTLE PIGS.*

TOM THUMB'S ALPHABET.

NEW TESTAMENT ALPHABET.

THE CATS' TEA PARTY.*

OUR FARM-YARD ALPHABET.

THE HISTORY OF MOSES.

THE HISTORY OF JOSEPH.

THE ALPHABET OF FLOWERS.

NURSERY RHYMES, 2nd Series.

NURSERY GAMES.

THE HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT.

THE LIFE OF OUR LORD.

THE THREE BEARS.

RED RIDING-HOOD.

NEW TALE OF A TUB.*

NURSERY TALES.

OLD MOTHER HUBBARD.

PICTURES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY, 1st Period.

PICTURES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY, 2nd Period.

PICTURES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY, 3rd Period.

PICTURES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY, 4th Period.

PUSS IN BOOTS.

TOM THUMB.

BABES IN THE WOOD.

JACK AND THE BEAN-STALK.

THE LAUGHABLE A B C.

WILD ANIMALS, 1st Series.*

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TAME ANIMALS, 1st Series.*

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TAME ANIMALS, 3rd Series.*

TAME ANIMALS, 4th Series.*

MY MOTHER.

THE DOGS' DINNER PARTY.

LITTLE DOG TRUSTY.

THE WHITE CAT.

THE UGLY DUCKLING.

LITTLE SNOW-WHITE.

DASH AND THE DUCKLINGS.

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Large Coloured Sixpenny Books for Children, with greatly improved Illustrations, super-royal 8vo, in wrappers.

s. d. 0 6 HISTORY OF OUR PETS.

HISTORY OF BLUE BEARD.

SINDBAD THE SAILOR.

A, APPLE PIE.

TOM THUMB'S ALPHABET.

BARON MUNCHAUSEN.

PICTURE ALPHABET.

ARTHUR'S ALPHABET.

DOROTHY FRUMP AND HER SIX DOGS.

SINGING BIRDS.

PARROTS & TALKING BIRDS.

DOGS.

NURSERY RHYMES.

BIRDS.

RAILROAD ALPHABET.

ALPHABET FOR GOOD BOYS AND GIRLS.

THE SEA-SIDE ALPHABET.

FARM-YARD ALPHABET.

GREEDY JEM AND HIS LITTLE BROTHERS.*

OUR PUSS AND HER KITTENS.*

HOP O' MY THUMB.

JACK THE GIANT KILLER.

LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD.

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.

HAPPY DAYS OF CHILDHOOD.*

LITTLE DOG TRUSTY.

THE CATS' TEA PARTY.

THE BABES IN THE WOOD.

WILD ANIMALS.

BRITISH ANIMALS.

THE FROG WHO WOULD A-WOOING GO.*

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HORSES.

OLD DAME TROT.

MULTIPLICATION TABLE.

CHATTERING JACK.

KING COLE.

PRINCE LONG NOSE.

THE ENRAGED MILLER.

THE HUNCHBACK.

HOW JESSIE WAS LOST.

GRAMMAR IN RHYME.

BABY'S BIRTHDAY.*

PICTURES FROM THE STREETS.*

LOST ON THE SEA-SHORE.*

ANIMALS AND BIRDS.*

A CHILD'S FANCY DRESS BALL.

A CHILD'S EVENING PARTY.

ANNIE AND JACK IN LONDON.

ONE, TWO, BUCKLE MY SHOE.

MARY'S NEW DOLL.*

WHEN THE CAT'S AWAY.*

NAUGHTY PUPPY.*

CHILDREN'S FAVOURITES.*

NAUGHTY BOYS AND GIRLS.

LITTLE MINXES.

STRUWELPETER.

LITTLE MINNIE'S CHILD LIFE.

KING NUTCRACKER.

LAZY BONES.

BRITISH SOLDIERS.

BRITISH SAILORS.

BRITISH VOLUNTEERS.

LAUGHTER BOOK FOR CHILDREN.

GRISLY BEARD.

RUMPELSTILTSKIN.

DOG PUFFY.

THE FAIRY SHIP.

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RED RIDING-HOOD.

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PUSS IN BOOTS.

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ELLEN LESLIE.

JESSIE GRAHAM.

FLORENCE ARNOTT.

BLIND ALICE.

GRACE AND CLARA.

RECOLLECTIONS OF MY CHILDHOOD.

EGERTON ROSCOE.

FLORA MORTIMER.

CHARLES HAMILTON.

STORY OF A DROP OF WATER.

LEARNING BETTER THAN HOUSES AND LAND.

MAUD'S FIRST VISIT TO HER AUNT. In Words of One Syllable.

EASY POEMS.

THE BOY CAPTIVE. By Peter Parley.

STORIES OF CHILD LIFE.

DAIRYMAN'S DAUGHTER.

ARTHUR'S TALES FOR THE YOUNG.

HAWTHORNE'S GENTLE BOY.

PLEASANT AND PROFITABLE.

THE FALSE KEY.

THE BRACELETS.

WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.

TARLETON, and FORGIVE AND FORGET.

LAZY LAWRENCE AND THE WHITE PIGEON.

THE BARRING OUT.

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THE MIMIC.

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SIMPLE SUSAN.

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TALE OF THE UNIVERSE.

ROBERT DAWSON.

KATE CAMPBELL.

BASKET OF FLOWERS.

BABES IN THE BASKET.

THE JEWISH TWINS.

CHILDREN ON THE PLAINS.

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THE LITTLE BLACK HEN.

MARTHA AND RACHEL.

CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER.

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GERTRUDE AND HER BIBLE.

THE CONTRAST. Miss Edgeworth.

THE GRATEFUL NEGRO. Do.

JANE HUDSON.

A KISS FOR A BLOW.

YOUNG NEGRO SERVANT.

LINA AND HER COUSINS.

ARTHUR'S LAST PENNY.

BRIGHT-EYED BESSIE.

THE GATES AJAR.

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FLORENCE ARNOTT.

ROBERT DAWSON.

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BROOKE AND BROOKE FARM.

LIFE IN THE WILDS.

HILL AND THE VALLEY.

THE WIDOW AND HER DAUGHTER.

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THE JANE HUDSON.

A KISS FOR A BLOW.

HUBERT LEE.

FLORA MORTIMER.

A DROP OF WATER.

THE FALSE KEY.

THE BRACELETS.

THE PURPLE JAR.

SIMPLE SUSAN.

KATE CAMPBELL.

LITTLE HENRY AND HIS BEARER.

THE GATES AJAR.

Routledge's Five-Shilling Poets.

Edited by Rev. R. A. WILLMOTT. Illustrated by FOSTER, GILBERT, CORBOULD, FRANKLIN, and HARVEY. Elegantly printed on good paper, post 8vo, gilt edges, bevelled boards.

s. d. 5 0 SPENSER'S FAERIE QUEENE. Illustrated by Corbould.

CHAUCER'S CANTERBURY TALES. Illustrated by ditto.

KIRKE WHITE. By Southey. Illustrated by Birket Foster.

SOUTHEY'S JOAN OF ARC, AND MINOR POEMS. Illustrated by Gilbert.

POPE'S POETICAL WORKS. Edited by Carey.

MILTON'S POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated by Harvey.

THOMSON, BEATTIE, AND WEST. Illust. by Birket Foster.

HERBERT. With Life and Notes by Rev. R. A. Willmott.

COWPER. Illust. by Birket Foster. Edited by Willmott.

LONGFELLOW'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated.

LONGFELLOW'S PROSE WORKS.

BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated by John Gilbert.

FAIRFAX'S TASSO'S JERUSALEM DELIVERED. Illustrated by Corbould.

PERCY'S RELIQUES OF ANCIENT POETRY. Illust. by ditto.

SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated by ditto.

MACKAY'S BALLADS AND LYRICS. Illust. by John Gilbert.

WORDSWORTH. Illustrated by Birket Foster.

CRABBE. Illustrated by ditto.

MACKAY'S SONGS. Complete Edition. Illust. by Gilbert.

ELIZA COOK'S POEMS. With Illustrations and Portrait.

MOORE'S POEMS. Illustrated by Corbould, &c.

BYRON'S POEMS. Illustrated by Gilbert, Wolf, Foster.

BENNETT'S POETICAL WORKS. Portrait and Illustrations.

CAMPBELL'S POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated by W. Harvey.

LOVER'S POETICAL WORKS. Portrait and Illustrations.

ROGERS' POETICAL WORKS. With Portrait, &c.

LORD LYTTON'S POETICAL WORKS. 7s. 6d.

LORD LYTTON'S DRAMATIC WORKS. 6s.

DRYDEN'S POETICAL WORKS. With Portrait, &c.

Routledge's Three-and-Sixpenny Poets, &c.

Printed on tinted paper, fcap. 8vo, gilt edges. With Illustrations.

s. d. 3 6 LONGFELLOW'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Illust.

COWPER. Illust. by Birket Foster. Edited by Willmott.

MILTON'S POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated by Harvey.

WORDSWORTH'S POETICAL WORKS. Illust. by B. Foster.

SOUTHEY'S JOAN OF ARC, AND MINOR POEMS. Illust. by Gilbert.

GOLDSMITH, JOHNSON, SHENSTONE, AND SMOLLETT. Do.

KIRKE WHITE. By Southey. Illustrated by Birket Foster.

BURNS. Illustrated by Gilbert.

THOMAS MOORE'S POEMS. Illustrated by Corbould.

BYRON'S POEMS. Illustrated by Gilbert, Wolf, &c.

POPE'S POETICAL WORKS. Illustrated by Gilbert.

SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. With Illustrations.

HERBERT'S WORKS. With Illustrations.

THOMAS CAMPBELL'S POETICAL WORKS. Illust. by Gilbert.

SHAKESPEARE'S COMPLETE WORKS.

CHAUCER'S POETICAL WORKS.

WILLIS'S POETICAL WORKS.

GOLDEN GLEANINGS.

CHOICE POEMS AND LYRICS.

SHAKESPEARE GEMS.

BOOK OF WIT AND HUMOUR.

WISE SAYINGS OF THE GREAT AND GOOD.

MONTGOMERY'S POEMS.

Routledge's Two-and-Sixpenny Poets.

Fcap. 8vo, with Illustrations, in cloth.

s. d. 2 6 LONGFELLOW'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS.

SCOTT'S POEMS.

BYRON'S POEMS.

COWPER'S POEMS.

WORDSWORTH'S POEMS.

BURNS' POEMS.

MOORE'S POEMS.

MILTON'S POEMS.

POPE'S POEMS.

Or bound in a new style, 8 vols., cloth, L1.

Routledge's Pocket Poets.

18mo, with Portrait.

s. d. 1 0 LONGFELLOW'S COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Paper, 1s.; cloth, 1s. 6d.

BURNS' COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS. Paper, 1s.; cloth, 1s. 6d.

SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. Cloth, 1s.

London: THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL. New York: 416, BROOME STREET.

J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 172, ST. JOHN STREET E C.

THE END