As they entered the house in Crown Street, they perceived that the door would not open freely on its hinges, and Susan looked behind to see the cause of the .  She immediately recognised the appearance of a little parcel, wrapped in a 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 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 bedroom, dark and still.  She took no of the little 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, ! 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 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 ; and at last she stooped down and kissed the pale, worn hand that lay outside the bed-clothes.  No touch disturbed the ; 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 -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 , did not to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny’s death; and when, after bearing his 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 her hands at this, and came and stood before her father, and him to forbear.  Then she had to take all steps for the coroner’s inquest; she had to arrange for the dismissal of her school; she had to summons 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, and of the whole state of affairs.  She asked her messenger to tell him to come and speak to her; that his mother was at her house.  She was thankful that her father sauntered out to have a gossip at the nearest coach-stand, and to relate as many of the night’s adventures as he knew; for as yet he was in ignorance of the watcher and the watched, who silently passed away the hours upstairs.
 
At dinner-time Will came.  He looked red, glad, impatient, excited.  Susan stood calm and white before him, her soft, loving eyes gazing straight into his.
 
“Will,” said she, in a low, quiet voice, “your sister is upstairs.”
 
“My sister!” said he, as if affrighted at the idea, and losing his glad look in one of gloom.  Susan saw it, and her heart sank a little, but she went on as calm to all appearance as ever.
 
“She was little Nanny’s mother, as perhaps you know.  Poor little Nanny was killed last night by a fall downstairs.”  All the calmness was gone; all the suppressed feeling was displayed in spite of every effort.  She sat down, and hid her face from him, and cried bitterly.  He forgot everything but the wish, the longing to comfort her.  He put his arm round her waist, and over her.  But all he could say, was, “Oh, Susan, how can I comfort you?  Don’t take on so—pray don’t!”  He never changed the words, but the tone every time he .  At last she seemed to her power over herself; and she wiped her eyes, and once more looked upon him with her own quiet, earnest, unfearing gaze.
 
“Your sister was near the house.  She came in on hearing my words to the doctor.  She is asleep now, and your mother is watching her.  I wanted to tell you all myself.  Would you like to see your mother?”
 
“No!” said he.  “I would rather see none but thee.  Mother told me thou knew’st all.”  His eyes were downcast in their shame.
 
But the holy and pure did not lower or veil her eyes.
 
She said, “Yes, I know all—all but her sufferings.  Think what they must have been!”
 
He made answer, low and stern, “She deserved them all; every .”
 
“In the eye of God, perhaps she does.  He is the Judge; we are not.”
 
“Oh!” she said, with a sudden burst, “Will Leigh!  I have thought so well of you; don’t go and make me think you cruel and hard.  Goodness is not goodness unless there is mercy and tenderness with it.  There is your mother, who has been nearly heart-broken, now full of rejoicing over her child.  Think of your mother.”
 
“I do think of her,” said he.  “I remember the promise I gave her last night.  Thou shouldst give me time.  I would do right in time.  I never think it o’er in quiet.  But I will do what is right and fitting, never fear.  Thou hast spoken out very plain to me, and misdoubted me, Susan; I love thee so, that thy words cut me.  If I did hang back a bit from making sudden promises, it was because not even for love of thee, would I say what I was not feeling; and at first I could not feel all at once as thou wouldst have me.  But I’m not cruel and hard; for if I had been, I should na’ have grieved as I have done.”
 
He made as if he were going away; and indeed he did feel he woul............