Michael in the kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the
blaze had dropped down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray
ashes in which the sparks ran hither and thither; but even in the
groping darkness Susan knew by the sinking at her heart that Michael
was not there. She threw another brand on the hearth and lighted the
candle, and sat down to her work in silence. Willie cowered on his
stool by the side of the fire, eyeing his sister from time to time,
and sorry and oppressed, he knew not why, by the sight of her grave,
almost stern face. No one came. They two were in the house alone.
The old woman who helped Susan with the household work had gone out
for the night to some friend's dwelling. William Dixon, the father,
was up on the fells seeing after his sheep. Susan had no heart to
prepare the evening meal.

"Susy, darling, are you angry with me?" said Willie, in his little
piping, gentle voice. He had stolen up to his sister's side. "I
won't never play with the fire again; and I'll not cry if Michael
does kick me. Only don't look so like dead mother--don't--don't--
please don't!" he exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder.

"I'm not angry, Willie," said she. "Don't be feared on me. You want
your supper, and you shall have it; and don't you be feared on
Michael. He shall give reason for every hair of your head that he
touches--he shall."

When William Dixon came home he found Susan and Willie sitting
together, hand-in-hand, and apparently pretty cheerful. He bade them
go to bed, for that he would sit up for Michael; and the next
morning, when Susan came down, she found that Michael had started an
hour before with the cart for lime. It was a long day's work; Susan