me far harder for offering to milk her before
her legs were tied. See thee! here's a
peppermint drop, and I'll make thee a pasty
to-night; only don't give way so, for it hurts
me sore to think that Michael has done thee
any harm, my pretty."

Willie roused himself up, and put back the
wet and ruffled hair from his heated face;
and he and Susan rose up and hand-in-hand
went towards the house, walking slowly and
quietly except for a kind of sob which Willie
could not repress. Susan took him to the
pump and washed his tear-stained face, till
she thought she had obliterated all traces of
the recent disturbance, arranging his curl
for him, and then she kissed him tenderly,
and led him in, hoping to find Michael in the
kitchen, and make all straight between them.
But the blaze had dropped down into darkness;
the wood was a heap of grey ashes in
which the sparks ran hither and thither;
but even in the groping darkness Susan knew
by the sinking at her heart that Michael was
not there. She threw another brand on the
hearth and lighted the candle, and sate down
to her work in silence. Willie cowered on
his stool by the side of the fire, eyeing his
sister from time to time, and sorry and
oppressed, he knew not why, by the sight of
her grave, almost stern face. No one came.
They two were in the house alone. The old
woman who helped Susan with the household
work had gone out for the night to some
friend's dwelling. William Dixon, the father,
was up on the fells seeing after his sheep.
Susan had no heart to prepare the evening
meal.

"Susy, darling, are you angry with me?"
said Willie, in his little piping gentle voice.
He had stolen up to his sister's side."  I
won't never play with fire again; and I'll
not cry if Michael does kick me. Only don't
look so like dead mother— don't— don't—
please don't!" he exclaimed, hiding his face
on her shoulder.

"I'm not angry, Willie," said she. " Don't
be feared on me. You want your supper,
and you shall have it; and don't you be
feared on Michael. He shall give reason for
every hair of your head that he touches— he
shall."

When William Dixon came home, he found
Susan and Willie sitting together, hand in
hand, and apparently pretty cheerful. He
bade them go to bed, for that he would sit up
for Michael; and the next morning, when
Susan came down, she found that Michael
had started an hour before with the cart for
lime. It was a long day's work; Susan knew
it would be late, perhaps later than on the
preceding night, before he returned— at any
rate, past her usual bed-time; and on no
account would she stop up a minute beyond
that hour in the kitchen, whatever she might
do in her bed-room. Here she sate and
watched till past midnight; and when she
saw him coming up the brow with the carts,
she knew full well, even in that faint moonlight,
that his gait was the gait of a man in
liquor. But though she was annoyed and
mortified to find in what way he had chosen
to forget her, the fact did not disgust or
shock her as it would have done many a girl,
even at that day, who had not been brought
up as Susan had, among a class who
considered it as no crime, but rather a mark of
spirit in a man to get drunk occasionally.
Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very
high all the next day when Michael was,
perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to
do heavy work, and hung about the
outbuildings and farm in a very disconsolate
and sickly state. Willie had far more pity on
him than Susan. Before evening Willie and
he were fast, and on his side, ostentatious
friends. Willie rode the horses down to
water; Willie helped him to chop wood.
Susan sate gloomily at her work, hearing an
indistinct, but cheerful conversation going on
in the shippon, while the cows were being
milked. She almost felt irritated with her
little brother, as if he were a traitor, and
had gone over to the enemy in the very
battle that she was fighting in his cause.
She was alone with no one to speak to, while
they prattled on, regardless if she were glad
or sorry.

Soon Willie burst in. "Susan! Susan!
come with me; I've something so pretty to
show you. Round the corner of the barn
run! run! " (He was dragging her along,
half reluctant, half desirous of some change
in that weary day.) Bound the corner of
the barn; and caught hold of by Michael, who
stood there awaiting her.

"O Willie! " cried she, " you naughty
boy. There is nothing pretty what have
you brought me here for? Let me go; I
won't be held."

"Only one word. Nay, if you wish it so
much, you may go," said Michael, suddenly
loosing his hold as she struggled. But now
she was free, she only drew off a step or two,
murmuring something about Willie.

"You are going, then?" said Michael,
with seeming sadness. "You won't hear me
say a word of what is in my heart."

"How can I tell whether it is what I
should like to hear? " replied she, still
drawing back.

"That is just what I want you to tell me;
I want you to hear it, and then to tell me if
you like it or not."

"Well, you may speak," replied she, turning
her back, and beginning to plait the hem
of her apron.

He came close to her ear.

"I am sorry I hurt Willie the other night.
He has forgiven me. Can you? "

"You hurt him very badly," she replied.
"But you are right to be sorry. I forgive
you."

"Stop, stop!" said he, laying his hand
upon her arm. " There is something more