"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.