"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.