tle woman sewing. She jumped up as Nettie
entered. By the becoming smartness of her calico dress and white collar,
the beautiful order of her hair, and a certain peculiarity of feature,
you might know before she spoke that the little baker was a Frenchwoman.
She spoke English quite well, though not so fast as she spoke her own
tongue.

"I want two loaves of bread, Mrs. August; and a pint of milk, if you
please."

"How will you carry them, my child? you cannot take them all at the
time."

"O yes, I can," said Nettie, cheerfully. "I can manage. They are not
heavy."

"No, I hope not," said the Frenchwoman; "it is not heavy, my bread! but
two loaves are not one, no more. Is your mother well?"

She then set busily about wrapping the loaves in paper and measuring out
the milk. Nettie answered her mother was well.

"And you?" said the little woman, looking at her sideways. "Somebody is
tired this evening."

"Yes," said Nettie, brightly; "but I don't mind. One must be tired
sometimes. Thank you, ma'am."

The woman had put the loaves and the milk carefully in her arms and in
her hand, so that she could carry them, and looked after her as she went
up the street.

"One must be tired sometimes!" said she to herself, with a turn of her
capable little head. "I should like to hear her say 'One must be rested
sometimes;' but I do not hear that."

So perhaps Nettie thought, as she went homeward. It would have been very
natural. Now the sun was down, the bright gleam was off the village; the
soft shades of evening were gathering and lights twinkled in windows.
Nettie walked very slowly, her arms full of the bread. Perhaps she
wished her Saturday's work was all done, like other people's. All I can
tell you is, that as she went along through the quiet deserted street,
all alone, she broke out softly singing to herself the words,

"No need of the sun in that day
Which never is followed by night."

And that when she got home she ran up stairs quite briskly, and came in
with a very placid face; and told her mother she had had a pleasant
walk--which was perfectly true.

"I'm glad, dear," said her mother, with a sigh. "What made it pleasant?"

"Why, mother," said Nettie, "Jesus was with me all the way."

"God bless you, child!" said her mother; "you are the very rose of my
heart!"

There was only time for this little dialogue, for which Mr. Mathieson's
slumbers had given a chance. But then Barry entered, and noisi