Before night they were at home again: Willie in high delight at a
little rattling paper windmill that Michael had bought for him in the
street, and striving to imitate this new sound with perpetual
buzzings. Michael, too, looked pleased. Susan knew the look,
although afterwards she remembered that he had tried to veil it from
her, and had assumed a grave appearance of sorrow whenever he caught
her eye. He put up his horse; for, although he had three miles
further to go, the moon was up--the bonny harvest-moon--and he did
not care how late he had to drive on such a road by such a light.
After the supper which Susan had prepared for the travellers was
over, Peggy went up-stairs to see Willie safe in bed; for he had to
have the same care taken of him that a little child of four years old
requires.

Michael drew near to Susan.

"Susan," said he, "I took Will to see Dr. Preston, at Kendal. He's
the first doctor in the county. I thought it were better for us--for
you--to know at once what chance there were for him."

"Well!" said Susan, looking eagerly up. She saw the same strange
glance of satisfaction, the same instant change to apparent regret
and pain. "What did he say?" said she. "Speak! can't you?"

"He said he would never get better of his weakness."

"Never!"

"No; never. It's a long word, and hard to bear. And there's worse
to come, dearest. The doctor thinks he will get badder from year to