make another slice as fast as possible.

"Hallo! Nettie—I say, give us some of that, will you?" said Barry, finding his porridge poor in taste.

"Barry, there isn't bread enough—I can't," whispered Nettie. "We've got to keep a loaf for supper."

"Eat what you've got, or let it alone!" thundered Mr. Mathieson, in the way he had when he was out of patience, and which always tried Nettie exceedingly.

"She's got more," said Barry. "She's toasting two pieces this minute. I want one."

"I'll knock you over if you say another word," said his father.

Nettie was frightened, for she saw he meant to have the whole, and she had destined a bit for her mother. However, when she gave her father his second slice, she ventured, and took the other with a cup of tea to the forlorn figure on the other side of the stove. Mrs. Mathieson took only the tea. But Mr. Mathieson's ire was roused afresh. Perhaps toast and tea didn't agree with him.

"Have you got all ready for Mr. Lumber?" he said, in a tone of voice very unwilling to be pleased.

"No," said his wife,—"I have had no chance. I have been cooking and clearing up all the morning. His room isn't ready."

"Well, you had better get it ready pretty quick. What's to do?"

"Everything's to do," said Mrs. Mathieson.

He swore at her. "Why can't you answer a plain question? I say, what's to do?"

"There's all Nettie's things in the room at present. They are all to move upstairs, and the red bedstead to bring down."

"No, mother," said Nettie, gently, "all my things are upstairs already; there's only the cot and the bed, that I couldn't move."

Mrs. Mathieson gave no outward sign of the mixed feeling of pain and pleasure that shot through her heart. Pleasure at her child's thoughtful love, pain that she should have to show it in such a way.

"When did you do it, Nettie?"

"This morning before breakfast, mother. It's all ready, father, if you or Barry would take up my cot and the bed, and bring down the other bedstead. It's too heavy for me."

"That's what I call doing business and having some spirit," said her father. "Not sitting and letting your work come to you. Here, Nettie, I'll do the rest for you."

Nettie ran with him to show him what was wanted; and Mr. Mathieson's strong arms had it all done very quickly. Nettie eagerly thanked him; and then seeing him in good humour with her, she ventured something more.

"Mother's very tired to-day, father," she whispered; "she'll feel better by-and-bye if she has a little rest. Do you think you would mind helping me put up this bedstead?"

"Well, here goes!" returned Mr. Mathieson. "Which piece belongs here, to begin with?"

Nettie did not know much better than he; but putting not only her whole mind but also her whole heart into it, she managed to find out and to direct him successfully. Her part was hard work: she had to stand holding up the heavy end of the bedstead while her father fitted in the long pieces; and then she helped him to lace the cords, which had to be drawn very tight; and precious time was running away fast, and Nettie had had no dinner. But she stood patiently, with a thought in her heart which kept her in peace all the while. When it was done, Mr. Mathieson went out, and Nettie returned to her mother. She was sitting where she had left her. Barry was gone.

"Mother, won't you have something to eat?"

"I can't eat, child. Have you had anything yourself?"

Nettie had seized a remnant of her father's toast, and was munching it hastily.

"Mother, won't you put on your gown and come to church this afternoon? Do! It will rest you. Do, mother!"

"You forget I've got to get supper, child. Your father doesn't think it necessary that anybody should rest, or go to church, or do anything except work. What he is thinking of, I am sure I don't know. There is no place to eat in but this room, and he is going to bring a stranger into it; and if I was dying I should have to get up for every meal that is wanted. I never thought I should come to live so! And I cannot dress myself, or prepare the victuals, or have a moment to myself, but I have the chance of Mr. Lumber and your father in here to look on! It is worse than a dog's life!"

It looked pretty bad, Nettie thought. She did not know what to say. She began clearing away the things on the table.

"And what sort of a man this Mr. Lumber is, I don't know. I dare say he is like his name—one of your father's cronies—a drinker and a swearer. And Mr. Mathieson will bring him here, to be on my hands! It will kill me before spring, if it lasts."

"Couldn't there be a bed made somewhere else for Barry, mother? and then we could eat in there."

"Where would you make it? I could curtain off a corner of this room, but Barry wouldn't have it, nor your father; and they'd all want to be close to the fire the minute the weather grows the least bit cool. No; there is nothing for me but to live on till Death calls for me!"

"Mother, Jesus said, 'He that liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.'"

"Oh, yes!" said Mrs. Mathieson, with a kind of long-drawn groan, "I don't know how it will be about that! I get so put about now in these times, that it seems to me I don't know my own soul!"

"Mother, come to church this afternoon."

"I can't, child. I've got to put up that man's bed and make it."

"That is all done, mother, and the floor brushed up. Do come!"

"Why, who put it up?"

"Father and I."

"Well! you do beat all, Nettie. But I can't, child; I haven't time."

"Yes, mother, plenty. There's all the hour of Sunday school before church begins. Now do, mother!"

"Well, you go off to school; and if I can, maybe I will. You go right off, Nettie."

Nettie went, feeling weary and empty by dint of hard work and a dinner of a small bit of dry toast. But she thought little about that. She wanted to ask Mr. Folke a question.

The lesson that afternoon was upon the peacemakers; and Mr. Folke asked the children what ways they knew of being a peacemaker. The answer, somehow, was not very ready.

"Isn't it to stop people from quarrelling?" one child asked.

"How can you do that, Jane?"

Jane seemed doubtful. "I could ask them to stop," she said.

"Well, suppose you did. Would angry people mind your asking?"

"I don't know, sir. If they were very angry, I suppose they wouldn't."

"Perhaps not. One thing is certain, Jane; you must have peace in your own heart, to give you the least chance."

"How, Mr. Folke?"

"If you want to put out a fire, you must not stick into it something that will catch."

"That would make the fire worse," said one of the girls.

"Certainly. So if you want to touch quarrelsome spirits with the least hope of softening them, you must be so full of the love of Jesus yourself that nothing but love can come out of your own spirit. You see, it means a good deal to be a peacemaker."

"I always thought that must be one of the easiest things of the whole list," said one of the class.

"You won't find it so, I think; or rather you will find they are all parts of the same character, and the blessing is one. But there are more ways of being a peacemaker. What do you do when the hinge of a door creaks?"

One said "She didn't know;" another said "Nothing." "I stop my ears," said a third. Mr. Folke laughed.

"That would not do for a peacemaker," he said. "Don't you know what makes machinery work smoothly?"

"Oil!" cried Jane.

"Oil to be sure! One little drop of oil will stop ever so much creaking and groaning and complaining, of hinges and wheels and all sorts of machines. Now, people's tempers are like wheels and hinges. But what sort of oil shall we use?"

The girls looked at each other, and then one of them said, "Kindness."

"To be sure! A gentle word, a look of love, a little bit of kindness, will smooth