she felt a dreadful, instinctive certainty that she was losing her.
Her mind was thronged with recollections of the many times she had
slighted her mother's wishes; her heart was full of the echoes of
careless and angry replies that she had spoken. What would she not
now give to have opportunities of service and obedience, and trials
of her patience and love, for that dear mother who lay gasping in
torture! And yet Susan had been a good girl and an affectionate
daughter.

The sharp pain went off, and delicious ease came on; yet still her
mother sunk. In the midst of this languid peace she was dying. She
motioned Susan to her bedside, for she could only whisper; and then,
while the father was out of the room, she spoke as much to the eager,
hungering eyes of her daughter by the motion of her lips, as by the
slow, feeble sounds of her voice.

"Susan, lass, thou must not fret. It is God's will, and thou wilt
have a deal to do. Keep father straight if thou canst; and if he
goes out Ulverstone ways, see that thou meet him before he gets to
the Old Quarry. It's a dree bit for a man who has had a drop. As
for lile Will"--Here the poor woman's face began to work and her
fingers to move nervously as they lay on the bed-quilt--"lile Will
will miss me most of all. Father's often vexed with him because he's
not a quick strong lad; he is not, my poor lile chap. And father
thinks he's saucy, because he cannot always stomach oat-cake and
porridge. There's better than three pound in th' old black tea-pot
on the top shelf of the cupboard. Just keep a piece of loaf-bread by
you, Susan dear, for Will to come to when he's not taken his
breakfast. I have, may be, spoilt him; but there'll be no one to
spoil him now."