knew. It came to her door; it stopped; the person outside listened
for a moment, and then lifted the wooden latch, and looked in. The
watcher by the bedside arose, and went to her. Susan would have been
glad to see Peggy's face once more, but was far too weak to turn, so
she lay and listened.

"How is she?" whispered one trembling, aged voice.

"Better," replied the other. "She's been awake, and had a cup of
tea. She'll do now."

"Has she asked after him?"

"Hush! No; she has not spoken a word."

"Poor lass! poor lass!"

The door was shut. A weak feeling of sorrow and self-pity came over
Susan. What was wrong? Whom had she loved? And dawning, dawning,
slowly rose the sun of her former life, and all particulars were made
distinct to her. She felt that some sorrow was coming to her, and
cried over it before she knew what it was, or had strength enough to
ask. In the dead of night,--and she had never slept again,--she
softly called to the watcher, and asked -

"Who?"

"Who what?" replied the woman, with a conscious affright, ill-veiled
by a poor assumption of ease. "Lie still, there's a darling, and go
to sleep. Sleep's better for you than all the doctor's stuff."