There was a long silence. Mr. Mathieson never stirred. Nor Nettie, hardly. The words were true of her,—"He that believeth shall not make haste." She waited, looking at him. Then he said, "What must I do, Nettie?"
"Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ."
"Father, the best way is to ask him, and he will tell you how. If you are only willing to be his servant—if you are willing to give yourself to the Lord Jesus—are you willing, father?"
"I am willing, anything!—if he will have me," said Mr. Mathieson.
"Then go, father!" said Nettie, eagerly;—"go and ask him, and he will teach you how; he will, he has promised. Go, father, and ask the Lord—will you? Go now."
Her father remained still a moment—then he rose up and went out of the room, and she heard his steps going up to the unused attic. Nettie crossed her hands upon her breast, and smiled. She was too much exhausted to pray, otherwise than with a thought.
Her mother soon came in, and startled by her flushed look, asked how she did. "Well," Nettie said. Mrs. Mathieson was uneasy, and brought her something to take, which Nettie couldn't eat; and insisted on her lying still and trying to go to sleep. Nettie thought she could not sleep; and she did not for some time; then slumber stole over her, and she slept sweetly and quietly while the hours of the summer afternoon rolled away. Her mother watched beside her for a long while before she awoke; and during that time read surely in Nettie's delicate cheek and too delicate colour, what was the sentence of separation. She read it, and smothered the cry of her heart, for Nettie's sake.
The sun was descending toward the western hilly country, and long level rays of light were playing in the tree-tops, when Nettie awoke.
"Are you there, mother?" she said—"and is the Sunday so near over! How I have slept."