"Well, you can go down the street to Jackson's, and get what your mother wants: some milk and bread; and then you'd better fetch seven pounds of meal and a quart of treacle. And ask him to give you a nice piece of pork out of his barrel."
"She can't bring all that!" exclaimed the mother; "you'd better go yourself, Mr. Mathieson. That would be a great deal more than the child can carry, or I either."
"Then I'll go twice, mother: it isn't far; I'd like to go. I'll get it. Please give me the money, father."
He cursed and swore at her for answer. "Go along, and do as you are bid, without all this chaffering! Go to Jackson's, and tell him you want the things, and I'll give him the money to-morrow. He knows me."
Nettie knew he did, and stood her ground.
Her father was just enough in liquor to be a little thick-headed and foolish.
"You know I can't go without the money, father," she said, gently; "and to-morrow is Sunday."
He cursed Sunday and swore again, but finally put his hand in his pocket and threw some money across the table to her. He was just in a state not to be careful what he did, and he threw her crown-pieces where, if he had been quite himself, he would have given shillings. Nettie took them without any remark, and her basket, and went out.
It was just sundown. The village lay glittering in the light that would be gone in a few minutes; and up on the hill the white church, standing high, showed all bright in the sun-beams, from its sparkling vane at the top of the spire down to the lowest step at the door. Nettie's home was in a branch road, a few steps from the main street of the village, that led up to the church at one end of it. All along that street the sunlight lay, on the grass, and the roadway, and the side-walks, and the tops of a few elm trees. The street was empty; it was most people's supper-time. Nettie turned the corner and went down the village. She went slowly: her little feet were already tired with the work they had done that day, and back and arms and head all seemed tired too. But Nettie never thought it hard that her mother did not go instead of letting her go; she knew her mother could not bear to be seen in the village in the old shabby gown and shawl she wore; for Mrs. Mathieson had seen better days. And besides that, she would be busy enough as it was, and till a late hour, this Saturday night. Nettie's gown was shabby too—yes, very shabby, compared with that almost every other child in the village wore; yet somehow Nettie was not ashamed. She did not think of it now, as her slow steps took her down the village street; she was thinking what she should do about the money. Her father had given her two or three times as much, she knew, as he meant her to spend; he was a good workman, and had just got in his week's wages. What should Nettie do? Might she keep and give to her mother what was over? it was, and would be, so much wanted! and from her father they could never get it again. He had his own ways of disposing of what he earned, and very little indeed went to the wants of his wife and daughter. What might Nettie do! She pondered, swinging her basket in her hand, till she reached a corner where the village street turned off again, and where the store of Mr. Jackson stood. There she found Barry bargaining for some things he at least had money for.
"Oh, Barry, how good!" exclaimed Nettie; "you can help me carry my things home."