“I don’t know,” said Susan, “but I love her dearly.”

“More silly you,” said he.

“She feeds out of my hand, she follows me about; I have always taken care of her; my mother gave her to me.”

“Well, say no more about it, then; 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 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 Daisy half so well.”  The struggle in her mind ceased, and with a calm voice she said, “Take the lamb.”

“Where is it?” said the Attorney.

“Grazing in the meadow, by the river-side.”

“It must be brought up before nightfall for the butcher, remember.”

“I shall not forget it,” said Susan, steadily.

As soon, however, as the cruel man turned his back and left the house, Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands.  She was soon roused by the sound of her mother’s feeble voice calling her from the inner room where she lay.  Susan went in.

“Are you there, love?  I thought I heard some strange voice just now talking to my child.  Something’s amiss, Susan,” her mother went on, raising herself as well as she could in bed, to look at her daughter’s face.

“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?”

“He is, indeed, a whole week—­but how burning hot your hand is still.”

“Are you sure he will stay?” asked her mother.  “How do you know?  Who told you so?  Tell me all quick!”

“Attorney Case told me so; he can get him leave for a week longer, and he has promised he will.”

“God bless him for it for ever and ever!” said the poor woman, joining her hands.  “May the blessing of Heaven be with him!”

Susan was silent.  The next moment she was called out of the room, for a messenger had come from the Abbey for the bread-bill.  Susan always made out the bills, for although she had not had many writing-lessons, she had taken great pains to learn, and wrote in a neat, clear hand.  It is true she was in no mood to write or add now, but the work must be done.  Having carefully ruled lines for the pounds, shillings and pence, she made out the bill and gave it to the boy who waited for it.  Then she said to herself she would make out the other bills, for many of the people in the village had bought a few loaves and rolls of her making.  “And when these are done, I may go down to the meadow to take leave of my poor lamb.”

But Susan could not find her slate, and when she did find it many of the figures were blurred, for Barbara had sat upon it.  And then the numbers seemed to dance before her, and each time that she added, the answer was different.  She went over and over the sums until her head ached.  The table was covered with little square bits of paper on which she had written the bills when her father came in, holding in his hand an account.