At dinner-time Will came.  He looked red, glad, impatient, excited.  Susan stood calm and white before him, her soft, loving eyes gazing straight into his.

“Will,” said she, in a low, quiet voice, “your sister is upstairs.”

“My sister!” said he, as if affrighted at the idea, and losing his glad look in one of gloom.  Susan saw it, and her heart sank a little, but she went on as calm to all appearance as ever.

“She was little Nanny’s mother, as perhaps you know.  Poor little Nanny was killed last night by a fall downstairs.”  All the calmness was gone; all the suppressed feeling was displayed in spite of every effort.  She sat down, and hid her face from him, and cried bitterly.  He forgot everything but the wish, the longing to comfort her.  He put his arm round her waist, and bent over her.  But all he could say, was, “Oh, Susan, how can I comfort you?  Don’t take on so—­pray don’t!” He never changed the words, but the tone varied every time he spoke.  At last she seemed to regain her power over herself; and she wiped her eyes, and once more looked upon him with her own quiet, earnest, unfearing gaze.

“Your sister was near the house.  She came in on hearing my words to the doctor.  She is asleep now, and your mother is watching her.  I wanted to tell you all myself.  Would you like to see your mother?”

“No!” said he.  “I would rather see none but thee.  Mother told me thou knew’st all.”  His eyes were downcast in their shame.

But the holy and pure did not lower or veil her eyes.

She said, “Yes, I know all—­all but her sufferings.  Think what they must have been!”

He made answer, low and stern, “She deserved them all; every jot.”

“In the eye of God, perhaps she does.  He is the Judge; we are not.”

“Oh!” she said, with a sudden burst, “Will Leigh!  I have thought so well of you; don’t go and make me think you cruel and hard.  Goodness is not goodness unless there is mercy and tenderness with it.  There is your mother, who has been nearly heart-broken, now full of rejoicing over her child.  Think of your mother.”

“I do think of her,” said he.  “I remember the promise I gave her last night.  Thou shouldst give me time.  I would do right in time.  I never think it o’er in quiet.  But I will do what is right and fitting, never fear.  Thou hast spoken out very plain to me, and misdoubted me, Susan; I love thee so, that thy words cut me.  If I did hang back a bit from making sudden promises, it was because not even for love of thee, would I say what I was not feeling; and at first I could not feel all at once as thou wouldst have me.  But I’m not cruel and hard; for if I had been, I should na’ have grieved as I have done.”

He made as if he were going away; and indeed he did feel he would rather think it over in quiet.  But Susan, grieved at her incautious words, which had all the appearance of harshness, went a step or two nearer—­paused—­and then, all over blushes, said in a low, soft whisper—­