"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."