sweeter and more lovely, when she thought
sadly of her erring father. And presently he
called aloud for a light; she had left matches
and all arranged as usual on the dresser, but,
fearful of some accident from fire, in his
unusually intoxicated state, she now got up
softly, and putting on a cloak, went down to
his assistance.

Alas! the little arms that were unclosed
from her soft neck belonged to a light, easily
awakened sleeper. Nanny missed her darling
Susy, and terrified at being left alone in the
vast mysterious darkness, which had no
bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped out
of bed, and tottered in her little night-gown
towards the door. There was a light below,
and there was Susy and safety! So she went
onwards two steps towards the steep abrupt
stairs; and then dazzled with sleepiness, she
stood, she wavered, she fell! Down on her
head on the stone floor she fell! Susan flew
to her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving
words; but her white lids covered up the
blue violets of eyes, and there was no murmur
came out of the pale lips. The warm tears
that rained down did not awaken her; she
lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on
Susan's knee. Susan went sick with terror.
She carried her upstairs, and laid her tenderly
in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with
her trembling fingers. Her father was asleep
on the settle down stairs; and useless, and
worse than useless if awake. But Susan flew
out of the door, and down the quiet resounding
street, towards the nearest doctor's house.
Quickly she went; but as quickly a shadow
followed, as if impelled by some sudden terror.
Susan rung wildly at the night-bell,—the
shadow crouched near. The doctor looked
out from an upstairs window.

' A little child has fallen down stairs at
No. 9, Crown-street, and is very ill,—dying
I'm afraid. Please, for God's sake, sir, come
directly. No. 9, Crown-street.'

' I'll be there directly,' said he, and shut the
window.

' For that God you have just spoken about,
—for His sake,—tell me are you Susan
Palmer? Is it my child that lies a-dying?'
said the shadow, springing forwards, and
clutching poor Susan's arm.

' It is a little child of two years old,—I do
not know whose it is; I love it as my own.
Come with me, whoever you are; come with
me.'

The two sped along the silent streets,—as
silent as the night were they. They entered
the house; Susan snatched up the light, and
carried it upstairs. The other followed.

She stood with wild glaring eyes by the
bedside, never looking at Susan, but hungrily
gazing at the little white still child. She
stooped down, and put her hand tight on her
own heart, as if to still its beating, and bent
her ear to the pale lips. Whatever the
result was, she did not speak; but threw off
the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had tenderly
covered up the little creature, and felt its
left side.

Then she threw up her arms with a cry of
wild despair.

' She is dead! she is dead! '

She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard,
that for an instant Susan was terrified—the
next, the holy God had put courage into her
heart, and her pure arms were round that
guilty wretched creature, and her tears were
falling fast and warm upon her breast. But
she was thrown off with violence.

'You killed her—you slighted her—you
let her fall down those stairs! you killed
her!'

Susan cleared off the thick mist before her,
and gazing at the mother with her clear,
sweet, angel-eyes, said, mournfully—

' I would have laid down my own life for
her.'

' Oh, the murder is on my soul! ' exclaimed
the wild bereaved mother, with the fierce
impetuosity of one who has none to love her
and to be beloved, regard to whom might
teach self-restraint.

' Hush! ' said Susan, her finger on her lips.
' Here is the doctor. God may suffer her
to live.'

The poor mother turned sharp round. The
doctor mounted the stair. Ah! that mother
was right; the little child was really dead
and gone .

And when he confirmed her judgment, the
mother fell down in a fit. Susan, with her
deep grief, had to forget herself, and forget
her darling (her charge for years), and question
the doctor what she must do with the
poor wretch, who lay on the floor in such
extreme of misery.

' She is the mother! ' said she.

' Why did not she take better care of her
child? ' asked he, almost angrily.

But Susan only said, ' The little child slept
with me; and it was I that left her.'

' I will go back and make up a composing
draught; and while I am away you must get
her to bed.'

Susan took out some of her own clothes,
and softly undressed the stiff, powerless, form.
There was no other bed in the house but the
one in which her father slept. So she
tenderly lifted the body of her darling; and
was going to take it down stairs, but the
mother opened her eyes, and seeing what she
was about, she said,

' I am not worthy to touch her, I am so
wicked; I have spoken to you as I never
should have spoken; but I think you are
very good; may I have my own child to lie
in my arms for a little while? '

Her voice was so strange a contrast to what
it had been before she had gone into the fit
that Susan hardly recognised it; it was now
so unspeakably soft, so irresistibly pleading,
the features too had lost their fierce expression,
and were almost as placid as death. Susan
could not speak, but she carried the little