"Michael, I'm beside myself with sorrow.
Don't blame me, if I speak sharp. He and
me is the only ones, you see. And mother
did so charge me to have a care of him!
And this is what lie's come to, poor lile
chap!" She began to cry, and Michael to
comfort her with caresses.

"Don't," said she. "It's no use trying to
make me forget poor Willie is a natural. I
could hate myself for being happy with you,
even for just a little minute. Go away, and
leave me to face it out."

"And you'll think it over, Susan, and
remember what the doctor says?"

"I can't forget it," said she. She meant
she could not forget what the doctor had said
about the hopelessness of her brother's case;
he had referred to the plan of sending
Willie away to an asylum, or madhouse, as
they were called in that day and place. The
idea had been gathering force in Michael's
mind for long; he had talked it over with
his father, and secretly rejoiced over the
possession of the farm and land which would then
be his in fact, if not in law, by right of his
wife. He had always considered the good
penny her father could give her in his
catalogue of Susan's charms and attractions. But
of late he had grown to esteem her as the
heiress of Yew Nook. He too should have
land like his brother—land to possess, to
cultivate, to make profit from, to bequeath. For
some time he had wondered that Susan had
been too much absorbed in Willie's present,
that she never seemed to look forward to his
future, state. Michael had long felt the boy
to be a trouble; but of late he had absolutely
loathed him. His gibbering, his uncouth
gestures, his loose shambling gait, all irritated
Michael inexpressibly. He did not come
near the Yew Nook for a couple of days. He
thought that he would leave her time to
become anxious to see him and reconciled to his
plan. They were strange, lonely days to
Susan. They were the first she had spent
face to face with the sorrows that had turned
her from a girl into a woman, for hitherto
Michael had never let twenty-four hours pass
by without coming to see her since she had had
the fever. Now that he was absent it seemed
as though some cause of irritation was
removed from Will, who was much more
gentle and tractable than he had been for
many weeks. Susan thought that she observed
him making efforts at her bidding, and there
was something piteous in the way in which
he crept up to her, and looked wistfully in
her face, as if asking her to restore him the
faculties that he felt to be wanting.

"I never will let thee go, lad. Never!
There's no knowing where they would take
thee to, or what they would do with thee.
As they say in the Bible, 'Nought but death
shall part thee and me!'"

The country-side was full, in those days, of
stories of the brutal treatment offered to the
insane; stories that were in fact only too
well founded, and the truth of one of which
only would have been a sufficient reason for
the strong prejudice existing against all such
places. Each succeeding hour that Susan
passed, alone, or with the poor, affectionate
lad for her sole companion, served to deepen
her solemn resolution never to part with him.
So, when Michael came, he was annoyed and
surprised by the calm way in which she
spoke, as if following Dr. Preston's advice
was utterly and entirely out of the question.
He had expected nothing less than a consent,
reluctant it might be, but still a consent;
and he was extremely irritated. He could
have repressed his anger, but he chose rather
to give way to it, thinking that he could so
best work upon Susan's affection, to gain his
point. But, somehow, he over-reached
himself; and now he was astonished in his turn
at the passion of indignation that she burst
into.

"Thou wilt not bide in the same house with
him, say'st thou? There's no need for thy
biding, as far as I can tell. There's solemn
reason why I should bide with my own flesh
and blood, and keep to the word I pledged
my mother on her death-bed; but, as for
thee, there's no tie that I know on to keep
thee fra going to America or Botany Bay this
very night, if that were thy inclination. I
will have no more of your threats to make
me send my bairn away. If thou marry me,
thou'lt help me to take charge of Willie. If
thou doesn't choose to marry me on those
terms —why! I can snap my fingers at
thee, never fear. I'm not so far gone in love
as that. But I will not have thee if thou
say'st in such a hectoring way that Willie
must go out of the house—and the house his
own too—before thou'lt set foot in it.
Willie bides here, and I bide with him."

"Thou hast may-be spoken a word too
much," said Michael, pale with rage. "If I
am free, as thou say'st, to go to Canada or
Botany Bay, I reckon I'm free to live where
I like, and that will not be with a natural
who may turn into a madman some day, for
aught I know. Choose between him and me,
Susy, for I swear to you, you shan't have
both."

"I have chosen," said Susan, now perfectly
composed and still. "Whatever comes of it,
I bide with Willie."

"Very well," replied Michael, trying to
assume an equal composure of manner.
"Then I'll wish you a very good night." He
went out of the house-door half-expecting to
be called back again; but, instead, he
heard a hasty step inside, and a bolt drawn.

"Whew!" said he to himself, "I think I
must leave my lady alone for a week or two,
and give her time to come to her senses.
She'll not find it so easy as she thinks to let
me go."

So he went past the kitchen-window in
nonchalant style, and was not seen again at
Yew Nook for some weeks. How did he