When Nettie went into the other room, her father was sitting there. She said nothing however, and even for some time did not look in his face to see what he might have to say to her. She took a cup of tea and a biscuit, and eat an egg that her mother had boiled for her. It was when supper was over, and they had moved from the table and Mrs. Mathieson was busy about, that Nettie turned her eyes once more upon her father, with their soft, full inquiry. He looked grave, subdued, tender; she had heard that in his voice already; not as she had ever seen him look before. He met her eyes, and answered them.
"I understand it now, Nettie," he said.
It was worth while to see Nettie's smile. She was not a child very given to expressing her feelings, and when pleasure reached that point with her, it was something to see such a breaking of light upon a face that generally dwelt in twilight sobriety. Her father drew her close, close within his arms; and without one word Nettie sat there, till, for very happiness and weariness, she fell asleep; and he carried her to her room.
There was a great calm fell upon the family for a little time thereafter. It was like one of those spring days that were passed—full of misty light, and peace, and hope, and promise. It was a breath of rest.
But they knew it would end—for a time; and one summer day the end came. It was a Sunday again, and again Nettie was lying on her bed, enjoying in her weakness the loveliness of the air and beauty without. Her mother was with her, and knew that she had been failing very fast for some days. Nettie knew it too.
"How soon do you think father will be home?" she said.
"Not before another hour, I think," said Mrs. Mathieson. "Why, what of it, Nettie?"
"Nothing——" said Nettie, doubtfully. "I'd like him to come."
"It wont be long," said her mother.
"Mother, I am going to give you my little dear hymn book," said Nettie, presently; "and I want to read you this hymn now, and then you will think of me when you read it. May I?"