"Do you feel better now, mon enfant?"
Nettie did not, and did not speak. Mme. Auguste mixed a spoonful of brandy and water and made her take it. That revived her a little.
"I must get up and go home," were the first words she said.
"You will lie still there, till I get some person to lift you on the bed," said the Frenchwoman, decidedly. "I have not more strength than a fly. What ails you, Nettie?"
"I don't know."
"Take one spoonful more. What did you have for dinner to-day?"
"I don't know. But I must go home!" said Nettie, trying to raise herself. "Mother will want me—she'll want me."
"You will lie still, like a good child," said her friend, gently putting her back on her pillow;—"and I will find some person to carry you home—or some person what will bring your mother here. I will go see if I can find some one now. You lie still, Nettie."
Nettie lay still, feeling weak after that exertion of trying to raise herself. She was quite restored now, and her first thoughts were of grief, that she had for a moment, and under any discouragement, failed to trust fully the Lord's promises. She trusted them now. Let her father do what he would, let things look as dark as they might, Nettie felt sure that "the rewarder of them that diligently seek him" had a blessing in store for her. Bible words, sweet and long loved and rested on, came to her mind, and Nettie rested on them with perfect rest. "For he hath not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, he heard." "Our heart shall rejoice in him, because we have trusted in his holy name." Prayer for forgiveness, and a thanksgiving of great peace, filled Nettie's heart all the while the Frenchwoman was gone.
Meanwhile Mme. Auguste had been looking into the street, and seeing nobody out in the wet snow, she rushed back to Nettie. Nettie was like herself now, only very pale.