“Well, say no more about it, then,” he cynically observed; “if you love your lamb better than both your father and your mother, keep it, and good morning to you.”
“Stay, oh stay!” cried Susan, catching the skirt of his coat with an eager, trembling hand;—“a whole week, did you say? My mother may get better in that time. No, I do not love my lamb half so well.” The struggle of her mind ceased, and with a placid countenance and calm voice, “take the lamb,” said she.
“Where is it?” said the attorney.
“Grazing in the meadow, by the river side.”
“It must be brought up before night-fall for the butcher, remember.”
“I shall not forget it,” said Susan, steadily.
As soon, however, as her persecutor turned his back and quitted the house, Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands. She was soon aroused by the sound of her mother’s feeble voice, who was calling Susan from the inner room where she lay. Susan went in; but did not undraw the curtain as she stood beside the bed.
“Are you there, love? Undraw the curtain, that I may see you, and tell me;—I thought I heard some strange voice just now talking to my child. Something’s amiss, Susan,” said her mother, raising herself as well as she was able in the bed, to examine her daughter’s countenance.
“Would you think it amiss, then, my dear mother,” said Susan, stooping to kiss her—“would you think it amiss, if my father was to stay with us a week longer?”
“Susan! you don’t say so?”