"What?" said Mr. Mathieson.—"I don't know anything about that, Nettie. I aint fit."
"Jesus will take you anyhow, father, if you will come."
"We'll talk about that some other time," said Mr. Mathieson,—"when you get well."
"But suppose I don't get well, father?"
"Eh?——" said Mr. Mathieson, startled.
"Perhaps I shan't get well," said Nettie, her quiet, grave face not changing in the least; "then I shall go to the golden city; and father, I shall be looking for you till you come."
Mr. Mathieson did not know how to answer her; he only groaned.
"Father, will you come?" Nettie repeated, a little faint streak of colour in her cheeks showing the earnestness of the feeling at work. But her words had a mingled accent of tenderness and hope which was irresistible.
"Yes, Nettie—if you will show me how," her father answered, in a lowered voice. And Nettie's eye gave one bright flash of joy. It was as if all her strength had gone out at that flash, and she was obliged to lean back on her father's shoulder and wait; joy seemed to have taken away her breath. He waited too, without knowing why she did.
"Father, the only thing to do is to come to Jesus."