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[Illustration: NETTIE COMFORTS HER MOTHER.]




                           THE

                  CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER.


  "Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called
                  the children of God."


   BY THE AUTHORS OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD," ETC. ETC.


               WITH  FRONTISPIECE.


                          LONDON:
                GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
                  THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.




       BY THE AUTHORS OF "THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD."

  Price ONE SHILLING each, with  Frontispiece
        THE TWO SCHOOLGIRLS.
        THE CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER.
        THE PRINCE IN DISGUISE.
        GERTRUDE AND HER BIBLE.
        MARTHA AND RACHEL.
        THE WIDOW AND HER DAUGHTER.
        THE LITTLE BLACK HEN.
        THE ROSE IN THE DESERT.




                GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS.


 London: Savill, Edwards & Co., Printers, Chandos Street.




CONTENTS.


CHAP.                                  PAGE

   I. SATURDAY EVENING'S WORK             1

  II. SUNDAY'S REST                      20

 III. NETTIE'S GARRET                    55

  IV. THE BROWN CLOAK IN NOVEMBER        69

   V. THE NEW BLANKET                    82

  VI. THE HOUSE-RAISING                  97

 VII. THE WAFFLES                       112

VIII. THE GOLDEN CITY                   135




THE CARPENTER'S DAUGHTER.




CHAPTER I.

SATURDAY EVENING'S WORK.


Down in a little hollow, with the sides grown full of wild thorn, alder
bushes, and stunted cedars, ran the stream of a clear spring. It ran
over a bed of pebbly stones, showing every one as if there had been no
water there, so clear it was; and it ran with a sweet soft murmur or
gurgle over the stones, as if singing to itself and the bushes as it
ran.

On one side of the little stream a worn foot path took its course among
the bushes; and down this path one summer's afternoon came a woman and a
girl. They had pails to fill at the spring; the woman had a large wooden
one, and the girl a light tin pail; and they drew the water with a
little tin dipper, for it was not deep enough to let a pail be used for
that. The pails were filled in silence, only the spring always was
singing; and the woman and the girl turned and went up the path again.
After getting up the bank, which was only a few feet, the path still
went gently rising through a wild bit of ground, full of trees and low
bushes; and not far off, through the trees, there came a gleam of bright
light from the window of a house, on which the setting sun was shining.
Half way to the house the girl and the woman stopped to rest; for water
is heavy, and the tin pail which was so light before it was filled, had
made the little girl's figure bend over to one side like a willow branch
all the way from the spring. They stopped to rest, and even the woman
had a very weary, jaded look.

"I feel as if I shall give up, some of these days," she exclaimed.

"O no, mother!" the little girl answered, cheerfully. She was panting,
with her hand on her side, and her face had a quiet, very sober look;
only at those words a little pleasant smile broke over it.

"I shall," said the woman. "One can't stand everything,--for ever."

The little girl had not got over panting yet, but standing there she
struck up the sweet air and words,--

    "'There is rest for the weary,
      There is rest for the weary,
      There is rest for the weary,
        There is rest for you.'"

"Yes, in the grave!" said the woman, bitterly. "There's no rest short of
that,--for mind or body."

"O yes, mother dear. 'For we which have believed do enter into rest.'
Jesus don't make us wait."

"I believe you eat the Bible and sleep on the Bible," said the woman,
with a faint smile, taking at the same time a corner of her apron to
wipe away a stray tear which had gathered in her eye. "I am glad it
rests you, Nettie."

"And you, mother."

"Sometimes," Mrs. Mathieson answered, with a sigh. "But there's your
father going to bring home a boarder, Nettie."

"A boarder, mother!--What for?"

"Heaven knows!--if it isn't to break my back, and my heart together. I
thought I had enough to manage before, but here's this man coming, and
I've got to get everything ready for him by to-morrow night."

"Who is it, mother?"

"It's one of your father's friends; so it's no good," said Mrs.
Mathieson.

"But where can he sleep?" Nettie asked, after a moment of thinking. Her
mother paused.

"There's no room but yours he can have. Barry wont be moved."

"Where shall I sleep, mother?"

"There's no place but up in the attic. I'll see what I can do to fit up
a corner for you--if I ever can get time," said Mrs. Mathieson, taking
up her pail. Nettie followed her example, and certainly did not smile
again till they reached the house. They went round to the front door,
because the back door belonged to another family. At the door, as they
set down their pails again before mounting the stairs, Nettie smiled at
her mother very placidly, and said--

"Don't you go to fit up the attic, mother; I'll see to it in time. I can
do it just as well."

Mrs. Mathieson made no answer but groaned internally, and they went up
the flight of stairs which led to their part of the house. The ground
floor was occupied by somebody else. A little entry way at the top of
the stairs received the wooden pail of water, and with the tin one
Nettie went into the room used by the family. It was her father and
mother's sleeping-room, their bed standing in one corner. It was the
kitchen apparently, for a small cooking-stove was there, on which Nettie
put the tea-kettle when she had filled it. And it was the common
living-room also; for the next thing she did was to open a cupboard and
take out cups and saucers and arrange them on a leaf table which stood
toward one end of the room. The furniture was wooden and plain; the
woodwork of the windows was unpainted; the cups and plates were of the
commonest kind; and the floor had no covering but two strips of rag
carpeting; nevertheless the whole was tidy and very clean, showing
constant care. Mrs. Mathieson had sunk into a chair, as one who had no
spirit to do anything; and watched her little daughter setting the table
with eyes which seemed not to see her. They gazed inwardly at something
she was thinking of.

"Mother, what is there for supper?"

"There is nothing. I must make some porridge." And Mrs. Mathieson got up
from her chair.

"Sit you still, mother, and I'll make it. I can."

"If both our backs are to be broken," said Mrs. Mathieson, "I'd rather
mine would break first." And she went on with her preparations.

"But you don't like porridge," said Nettie. "You didn't eat anything
last night."

"That's nothing, child. I can bear an empty stomach, if only my brain
wasn't quite so full."

Nettie drew near the stove and looked on, a little sorrowfully.

"I wish you had something you liked, mother! If only I was a little
older, wouldn't it be nice? I could earn something then, and I would
bring you home things that you liked out of my own money."

This was not said sorrowfully, but with a bright gleam as of some
fancied and pleasant possibility. The gleam was so catching, Mrs.
Mathieson turned from her porridge-pot which she was stirring, to give a
very heartfelt kiss to Nettie's lips; then she stirred on,