“God bless you, Will.  Oh!  I am so happy.  It seems as if she were found; my heart is so filled with gladness.”

That night Mr. Palmer stayed out late and long.  Susan was afraid that he was at his old haunts and habits—­getting tipsy at some public-house; and this thought oppressed her, even though she had so much to make her happy in the consciousness that Will loved her.  She sat up long, and then she went to bed, leaving all arranged as well as she could for her father’s return.  She looked at the little rosy, sleeping girl who was her bed-fellow, with redoubled tenderness, and with many a prayerful thought.  The little arms entwined her neck as she lay down, for Nanny was a light sleeper, and was conscious that she, who was loved with all the power of that sweet, childish heart, was near her, and by her, although she was too sleepy to utter any of her half-formed words.

And, by-and-by, she heard her father come home, stumbling uncertain, trying first the windows, and next the door fastenings, with many a loud incoherent murmur.  The little innocent twined around her seemed all the sweeter and more lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring father.  And presently he called aloud for a light.  She had left matches and all arranged as usual on the dresser; but, fearful of some accident from fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up softly, and putting on a cloak, went down to his assistance.

Alas! the little arms that were unclosed from her soft neck belonged to a light, easily awakened sleeper.  Nanny missed her darling Susy; and terrified at being left alone, in the vast mysterious darkness, which had no bounds and seemed infinite, she slipped out of bed, and tottered, in her little nightgown, towards the door.  There was a light below, and there was Susy and safety!  So she went onwards two steps towards the steep, abrupt stairs; and then, dazzled by sleepiness, she stood, she wavered, she fell!  Down on her head on the stone floor she fell!  Susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving words; but her white lids covered up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no murmur came out of the pale lips.  The warm tears that rained down did not awaken her; she lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on Susan’s knee.  Susan went sick with terror.  She carried her upstairs, and laid her tenderly in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with her trembling fingers.  Her father was asleep on the settle downstairs; and useless, and worse than useless, if awake.  But Susan flew out of the door, and down the quiet resounding street, towards the nearest doctor’s house.  Quickly she went, but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by some sudden terror.  Susan rang wildly at the night-bell—­the shadow crouched near.  The doctor looked out from an upstairs window.

“A little child has fallen downstairs, at No. 9 Crown Street, and is very ill—­dying, I’m afraid.  Please, for God’s sake, sir, come directly.  No. 9 Crown Street.”