ow,
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 she not 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 o