not be persuaded; sometimes she would
yield, in a despondent kind of way, and sit down with her Testament and
look at it as if neither there nor anywhere else in the universe could
she find rest or comfort any more.

"It don't signify, child," she said, one afternoon when Nettie had been
urging her to sit down and read. "I haven't the heart to do anything.
We're all driving to rack and ruin just as fast as we can go."

"Oh no, mother!" said Nettie. "I don't think we are."

"I am sure of it. I see it coming every day. Every day it is a little
worse; and Barry is going along with your father; and they are
destroying me among them, body and soul too."

"No, mother," said Nettie, "I don't think that. I have prayed the Lord
Jesus, and you know he has promised to hear prayer; and I know we are
not going to ruin."

"_You_ are not, child, I believe; but you are the only one of us that
isn't. I wish I was dead, to be out of my misery!"

"Sit down, mother, and read a little bit; and don't talk so. Do, mother!
It will be an hour and more yet to supper, and I'll get it ready. You
sit down and read, and I'll make the shortcakes. Do, mother! and you'll
feel better."

It was half despair and half persuasion that made her do it; but Mrs.
Mathieson did sit down by the open window and take her Testament; and
Nettie flew quietly about, making her shortcakes and making up the fire
and setting the table, and through it all casting many a loving glance
over to the open book in her mother's hand and the weary, stony face
that was bent over it. Nettie had not said how her own back was aching,
and she forgot it almost in her business and her thoughts; though by the
time her work was done her head was aching wearily too. But cakes and
table and fire and everything else were in readiness; and Nettie stole
up behind her mother and leaned over her shoulder; leaned a little
heavily.

[1] "Don't that chapter comfort you, mother?" she whispered.

[1] See Frontispiece.

"No. It don't seem to me as I've got any feeling left," said Mrs.
Mathieson. It was the fourth chapter of John at which they were both
looking.

"Don't it comfort you to read of Jesus being wearied?" Nettie went on,
her head lying on her mother's shoulder.

"Why should it, child?"

"I like to read it," said Nettie. "Then I know he knows how I feel
sometimes."

"God knows everything, Nettie."

"Yes, mother; but then Jesus _felt_ it. 'He took our infirmities.' And
oh,