“Oh, Will!  I beg your pardon.  I am very sorry.  Won’t you forgive me?”

She who had always drawn back, and been so reserved, said this in the very softest manner; with eyes now uplifted beseechingly, now dropped to the ground.  Her sweet confusion told more than words could do; and Will turned back, all joyous in his certainty of being beloved, and took her in his arms, and kissed her.

“My own Susan!” he said.

Meanwhile the mother watched her child in the room above.

It was late in the afternoon before she awoke, for the sleeping draught had been very powerful.  The instant she awoke, her eyes were fixed on her mother’s face with a gaze as unflinching as if she were fascinated.  Mrs. Leigh did not turn away, nor move; for it seemed as if motion would unlock the stony command over herself which, while so perfectly still, she was enabled to preserve.  But by-and-by Lizzie cried out, in a piercing voice of agony—­

“Mother, don’t look at me!  I have been so wicked!” and instantly she hid her face, and grovelled among the bed-clothes, and lay like one dead, so motionless was she.

Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in the most soothing tones.

“Lizzie, dear, don’t speak so.  I’m thy mother, darling; don’t be afeard of me.  I never left off loving thee, Lizzie.  I was always a-thinking of thee.  Thy father forgave thee afore he died.” (There was a little start here, but no sound was heard.) “Lizzie, lass, I’ll do aught for thee; I’ll live for thee; only don’t be afeard of me.  Whate’er thou art or hast been, we’ll ne’er speak on’t.  We’ll leave th’ oud times behind us, and go back to the Upclose Farm.  I but left it to find thee, my lass; and God has led me to thee.  Blessed be His name.  And God is good, too, Lizzie.  Thou hast not forgot thy Bible, I’ll be bound, for thou wert always a scholar.  I’m no reader, but I learnt off them texts to comfort me a bit, and I’ve said them many a time a day to myself.  Lizzie, lass, don’t hide thy head so; it’s thy mother as is speaking to thee.  Thy little child clung to me only yesterday; and if it’s gone to be an angel, it will speak to God for thee.  Nay, don’t sob a that ’as; thou shalt have it again in heaven; I know thou’lt strive to get there, for thy little Nancy’s sake—­and listen!  I’ll tell thee God’s promises to them that are penitent—­only doan’t be afeard.”

Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to speak very clearly, while she repeated every tender and merciful text she could remember.  She could tell from the breathing that her daughter was listening; but she was so dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, that she could not go on speaking.  It was all she could do to keep from crying aloud.

At last she heard her daughter’s voice.

“Where have they taken her to?” she asked.

“She is downstairs.  So quiet, and peaceful, and happy she looks.”