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, alas! 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 woe
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 longing; and at last she stooped down and
kissed the pale, worn hand that lay outside the bed-clothes. No touch
disturbed the sleeper; 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 sob-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 intemperance, did
not scruple to reproach her with being the cause of little Nanny's death;
and when, after bearing his upbraiding meekly 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 wrung her hands at this, and came and stood before her father, and
implored him to forbear. Then she had to take all requisite 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