Her voice was so strange a contrast to what it had been before she had gone into the fit, that Susan hardly recognised it:  it was now so unspeakably soft, so irresistibly pleading; the features too had lost their fierce expression, and were almost as placid as death.  Susan could not speak, but she carried the little child, and laid it in its mother’s arms; then, as she looked at them, something overpowered her, and she knelt down, crying aloud—­“Oh, my God, my God, have mercy on her, and forgive and comfort her.”

But the mother kept smiling, and stroking the little face, murmuring soft, tender words, as if it were alive.  She was going mad, Susan thought; but she prayed on, and on, and ever still she prayed with streaming eyes.

The doctor came with the draught.  The mother took it, with docile unconsciousness of its nature as medicine.  The doctor sat by her; and soon she fell asleep.  Then he rose softly, and beckoning Susan to the door, he spoke to her there.

“You must take the corpse out of her arms.  She will not awake.  That draught will make her sleep for many hours.  I will call before noon again.  It is now daylight.  Good-by.”

Susan shut him out; and then, gently extricating the dead child from its mother’s arms, she could not resist making her own quiet moan over her darling.  She tried to learn off its little placid face, dumb and pale before her.

   Not all the scalding tears of care
   Shall wash away that vision fair;
   Not all the thousand thoughts that rise,
   Not all the sights that dim her eyes,
      Shall e’er usurp the place
      Of that little angel-face.

And then she remembered what remained to be done.  She saw that all was right in the house; her father was still dead asleep on the settle, in spite of all the noise of the night.  She went out through the quiet streets, deserted still, although it was broad daylight, and to where the Leighs lived.  Mrs. Leigh, who kept her country hours, was opening her window-shutters.  Susan took her by the arm, and, without speaking, went into the house-place.  There she knelt down before the astonished Mrs. Leigh, and cried as she had never done before; but the miserable night had overpowered her, and she who had gone through so much calmly, now that the pressure seemed removed could not find the power to speak.

“My poor dear!  What has made thy heart so sore as to come and cry a-this-ons?  Speak and tell me.  Nay, cry on, poor wench, if thou canst not speak yet.  It will ease the heart, and then thou canst tell me.”

“Nanny is dead!” said Susan.  “I left her to go to father, and she fell downstairs, and never breathed again.  Oh, that’s my sorrow!  But I’ve more to tell.  Her mother is come—­is in our house!  Come and see if it’s your Lizzie.”

Mrs. Leigh could not speak, but, trembling, put on her things and went with Susan in dizzy haste back to Crown Street.