"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."