child, and laid it in its mother's arms; then
as she looked at them, something overpowered
her, and she knelt down, crying aloud,

' Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on her,
and forgive, and comfort her.'

But the mother kept smiling, and stroking
the little face, murmuring soft tender words,
as if it were alive; she was going mad, Susan
thought; but she prayed on, and on, and ever
still she prayed with streaming eyes.

The doctor came with the draught. The
mother took it, with docile unconsciousness
of its nature as medecine. The doctor sat by
her; and soon she fell asleep. Then he rose
softly, and beckoning Susan to the door, he
spoke to her there.

'You must take the corpse out of her
arms. She will not awake. That draught
will make her sleep for many hours. I will
call before noon again. It is now daylight.
Good-bye.'

Susan shut him out; and then gently
extricating the dead child from its mother's
arms, she could not resist making her own
quiet moan over her darling. She tried to
learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale
before her.

"Not all the scalding tears of care
Shall wash away that vision fair;
Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,
Not all the sights that dim her eyes,
Shall e'er usurp the place
Of that little angel-face."

And then she remembered what remained
to be done. She saw that all was right in
the house; her father was still dead asleep on
the settle, in spite of all the noise of the
night. She went out through the quiet
streets, deserted still although it was broad
daylight, and to where the Leighs lived.
Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hours, was
opening her window shutters. Susan took
her by the arm, and, without speaking, went
into the house-place. There she knelt down
before the astonished Mrs. Leigh, and cried
as she had never done before; but the
miserable night had overpowered her, and
she who had gone through so much calmly,
now that the pressure seemed removed could
not find the power to speak.

' My poor dear! What has made thy
heart so sore as to come and cry a-this-ons.
Speak and tell me. Nay, cry on, poor
wench, if thou canst not speak yet. It
will ease the heart, and then thou canst tell
me.'

' Nanny is dead! ' said Susan. ' I left her
to go to father, and she fell down stairs, and
never breathed again. Oh, that's my sorrow!
but I've more to tell. Her mother is come—
is in our house! Come and see if it's your
Lizzie.' Mrs. Leigh could not speak, but,
trembling, put on her things, and went
with Susan in dizzy haste back to Crown-
street.

CHAPTER IV.

As they entered the house in Crown-street,
they perceived that the door would not open
freely on its hinges, and Susan instinctively
looked behind to see the cause of the obstruction.
She immediately recognised the appearance
of a little parcel, wrapped in a scrap of
newspaper, and evidently containing money.
She stooped and picked it up. ' Look! ' said
she, sorrowfully, ' the mother was bringing
this for her child last night.'

But Mrs. Leigh did not answer. So near to
the ascertaining if it were her lost child or no,
she could not be arrested, but pressed onwards
with trembling steps and a beating, fluttering
heart. She entered the bed-room, dark and
still. She took no heed of the little corpse,
over which Susan paused, but she went
straight to the bed, and withdrawing the
curtain, saw Lizzie,—but not the former Lizzie,
bright, gay, buoyant, and undimmed. This
Lizzie was old before her time; her beauty
was gone; deep lines of care, and alas! of
want (or thus the mother imagined) were
printed on the cheek, so round, and fair, and
smooth, when last she gladdened her mother's
eyes. Even in her sleep she bore the look of
woe and despair which was the prevalent
expression of her face by day; even in her sleep
she had forgotten how to smile. But all these
marks of the sin and sorrow she had passed
through only made her mother love her the
more. She stood looking at her with greedy
eyes, which seemed as though no gazing could
satisfy their longing; and at last she stooped
down and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay
outside the bed-clothes. No touch disturbed
the sleeper; the mother need not have laid
the hand so gently down upon the counterpane.
There was no sign of life, save only
now and then a deep sob-like sigh. Mrs.
Leigh sat down beside the bed, and, still
holding back the curtain, looked on and on, as
if she could never be satisfied.

Susan would fain have stayed by her darling
one; but she had many calls upon her time
and thoughts, and her will had now, as ever,
to be given up to that of others. All seemed
to devolve the burden of their cares on her.
Her father, ill-humoured from his last night's
intemperance, did not scruple to reproach her
with being the cause of little Nanny's death;
and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly
for some time, she could no longer restrain
herself, but began to cry, he wounded her
even more by his injudicious attempts at
comfort: for he said it was as well the child was
dead; it was none of theirs, and why should
they be troubled with it? Susan wrung her
hands at this, and came and stood before her
father, and implored him to forbear. Then
she had to take all requisite steps for the
coroner's inquest; she had to arrange for the
dismissal of her school; she had to summon a
little neighbour, and send his willing feet on
a message to William Leigh, who, she felt,
ought to be informed of his mother's whereabouts