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?"