“She is dead! she is dead!”
She looked so fierce, so mad, so haggard, that for an instant Susan was terrified—the next, the holy God had put courage into her heart, and her pure arms were round that guilty wretched creature, and her tears were falling fast and warm upon her breast. But she was thrown off with violence.
“You killed her—you slighted her—you let her fall down those stairs! you killed her!”
Susan cleared off the thick mist before her, and gazing at the mother with her clear, sweet, angel-eyes, said mournfully—
“I would have laid down my own life for her.”
“Oh, the murder is on my soul!” exclaimed the wild bereaved mother, with the fierce impetuosity of one who has none to love her and to be beloved, regard to whom might teach self-restraint.
“Hush!” said Susan, her finger on her lips. “Here is the doctor. God may suffer her to live.”
The poor mother turned sharp round. The doctor mounted the stair. Ah! that mother was right; the little child was really dead and gone.
And when he confirmed her judgment, the mother fell down in a fit. Susan, with her deep grief, had to forget herself, and forgot her darling (her charge for years), and question the doctor what she must do with the poor wretch, who lay on the floor in such extreme of misery.
“She is the mother!” said she.