"No, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think that. I have prayed the Lord Jesus, and you know He has promised to hear prayer; and I know we are not going to ruin."
"You are not, child, I believe; but you are the only one of us that isn't. I wish I was dead, to be out of my misery!"
"Sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. Do, mother! It will be an hour or more yet to supper, and I'll get it ready. You sit down and read, and I'll make the shortcakes. Do, mother! and you'll feel better."
It was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but Mrs. Mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her Testament; and Nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance over to the open book in her mother's hand, and the weary, stony face that was bent over it. Nettie had not said how her own back was aching, and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. But cakes and table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and Nettie stole up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder—leaned a little heavily.
"Don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered.
"No. It don't seem to me as I've got any feeling left," said Mrs. Mathieson.
It was the fourth chapter of John at which they were both looking.
"Don't it comfort you to read of Jesus being wearied?" Nettie went on, her head lying on her mother's shoulder.
"Why should it, child?"
"I like to read it," said Nettie. "Then I know He knows how I feel sometimes."