with all the power of
that sweet, childish heart, was near her, and by her, although she was
too sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words.

And, by-and-by, she heard her father come home, stumbling uncertain,
trying first the windows, and next the door fastenings, with many a loud
incoherent murmur. The little innocent twined around her seemed all the
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 nightgown, 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 by 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 downstairs; 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 rang wildly at the night-bell--the shadow crouched near. The
doctor looked out from an upstairs window.

"A little child has fallen downstairs, 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 shad