She stood with wild, glaring eyes by the bedside, never looking at Susan, but hungrily gazing at the little, white, still child. She stooped down, and put her hand tight on her own heart, as if to still its beating, and bent her ear to the pale lips. Whatever the result was, she did not speak; but threw off the bed-clothes wherewith Susan had tenderly covered up the little creature, and felt its left side.
Then she threw up her arms, with a cry of wild despair.
“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 forget 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.