"Can you?" said she, wrenching herself | vember wind came with long sweeps over the out of his grasp and panting, half with rage. fells till it rattled among the crackling boughs, "Take that, by way of proof that making underneath which the brother and sister sate right is none so easy." And she boxed his in the dark; he in her lap, and she hushing ears pretty sharply. He went back to his seat his head against her shoulder. discomfited and out of temper. She could no longer see to look, even if her face had not burnt and her eyes dazzled, but she did not choose to move her seat, so she still preserved her stooping attitude, and pretended to go on sewing. "Eleanor Hebthwaite may be milk-andwater," muttered he, " but-Confound thee, lad! what art doing?" exclaimed Michael, as a great piece of burning wood was cast into his face by an unlucky poke of Will's. "Thou great lounging clumsy chap, I'll teach thee better!" and with one or two good round kicks he sent the lad whimpering away into the back kitchen. When he had a little recovered himself from his passion, he saw Susan standing before him, her face looking strange and almost ghastly by the reversed position of the shadows arising from the firelight shining upwards right under it. "I tell thee what, Michael," said she, "that lad 's motherless, but not friendless." "His own father leathers him, and why should not I, when he's given me such a burn on my face?" said Michael, putting up his hand to his cheek as if in pain. "His father's his father, and there is nought more to be said. But if he did burn thee, it was by accident, and not o' purpose, as thou kicked him; it's a mercy if his ribs are not broken." "He howls loud enough, I'm sure. I might a kicked many a lad twice as hard and they'd ne'er ha' said ought but damn ye; but yon lad must needs cry out like a stuck pig if one touches him," replied Michael sullenly. Susan went back to the window-seat, and looked absently out of the window at the drifting clouds for a minute or two, while her eyes filled with tears. Then she got up and made for the outer door which led into the back kitchen. Before she reached it, however, she heard a low voice, whose music made her thrill, say "Susan, Susan!" Her heart melted within her, but it seemed like treachery to her poor boy, like faithlessness to her dead mother, to turn to her lover while the tears which he had caused to flow were yet unwiped on Will's cheeks. So she seemed to take no heed, but passed into the darkness, and, guided by the sobs, she found her way to where Willie sat crouched among disused tubs and churns. "Come out wi' me, lad;" and they went into the orchard, where the fruit-trees were bare of leaves, but ghastly in their tattered covering of gray moss: and the soughing NoVOL. XI. 31 DC. LIVING AGE. "Thou shouldst na' play wi' fire. It's a naughty trick. Thou 'lt suffer for it in worse ways nor this before thou 'st done, I 'm a feared. I should ha' hit thee twice as lungeous kicks as Mike, if I'd been in his place. He did na' hurt thee, I am sure," she assumed, half as a question. "Yes! but he did. He turned me quite sick." And he let his head fall languidly down on his sister's breast. "Come lad! come lad!" said she anxiously, "be a man. It was not much that I saw. Why, when first the red cow came, she kicked me far harder for offering to milk her before her legs were tied. See thee! here's a peppermint drop, and I'll make thee a pasty to-night; only don't give way so, for it hurts me sore to think that Michael has done thee any harm, my pretty." Willie roused himself up, and put back the wet and ruffled hair from his heated face; and he and Susan rose up and hand-in-hand went towards the house, walking slowly and quietly except for a kind of sob which Willie could not repress. Susan took him to the pump and washed his tear-stained face, till she thought she had obliterated all traces of the recent disturbance, arranging his curls for him, and then she kissed him tenderly, and led him in, hoping to find Michael in the kitchen, and make all straight between them. But the blaze had dropped down into darkness; the wood was a heap of gray ashes in which the sparks ran hither and thither; but even in the groping darkness, Susan knew by the sinking at her heart that Michael was not there She threw another brand on the hearth and lighted the candle, and sate down to her work in silence. Willie cowered on his stool by the side of the fire, eyeing his sister from time to time, and sorry and oppressed, he knew not why, by the sight of her grave, almost stern face. No one came. They two were in the house alone. The old woman who helped Susan with the household work had gone out for the night to some friend's dwelling. William Dixon, the father, was up on the fells seeing after his sheep. Susan had no heart to prepare the evening meal. "I "Susy, darling, are you angry with me?" said Willie, in his little piping gentle voice. He had stolen up to his sister's side. won't never play with fire again; and I'll not cry if Michael does kick me. Only don't look so like dead mother-don't-don'tplease don't!" he exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder. "Only one word. Nay, if you wish it so much, you may go," said Michael, suddenly loosing his hold as she struggled. But now she was free, she only drew off a step or two, murmuring something about Willie. "You are going, then?" said Michael, with seeming sadness. "You won't hear me say a word of what is in my heart." "How can I tell whether it is what I should like to hear?" replied she, still drawing back. That is just what I want you to tell me; I want you to hear it, and then to tell me if you like it or not." He came close to her ear. "I am sorry I hurt Willie the other night. you." When William Dixon came home, he found Susan and Willie sitting together, hand in hand, and apparently pretty cheerful. He bade them go to bed, for that he would sit up for Michael; and the next morning, when Susan came down, she found that Michael had started an hour before with the cart for lime. It was a long day's work; Susan knew it would be late, perhaps later "Well, you may speak," replied she, turnthan on the preceding night, before he re-ing her back, and beginning to plait the hem turned at any rate, past her usual bed- of her apron. time; and on no account would she stop up a minute beyond that hour in the kitchen, whatever she might do in her bed-room. He has forgiven me. Can you?" Here she sate and watched till past midnight; "You hurt him very badly," she replied. and when she saw him coming up the brow" But you are right to be sorry. I forgive with the carts, she knew full well, even in that faint moonlight, that his gait was the gait of a man in liquor. But though she was annoyed and mortified to find in what way he had chosen to forget her, the fact did not disgust or shock as it would have done many a girl, even at that day, who had not been brought up as Susan had, among a class who considered it as no crime, but rather a mark of spirit, in a man to get drunk occasionally. Nevertheless, she chose to hold herself very high all the next day, when Michael was, perforce, obliged to give up any attempt to do heavy work, and hung about the outbuildings and farm in a very disconsolate and sickly state. Willie had far more pity on him than Susan. Before evening Willie and he were fast, and on his side ostentatious, friends. Willie rode the horses down to water; Willie helped him to chop wood. Susan sate gloomily at her work, hearing an indistinct but cheerful conversation going on in the shippon, while the cows were being milked. She almost felt irritated with her little brother, as if he were a traitor, and had gone over to the enemy in the very battle that she was fighting in his cause. She was alone, with no one to speak to, while they prattled on, regardless if she were glad or sorry. Soon Willie burst in. "Susan! Susan! | come with me; I've something so pretty to show you. Round the corner of the barn run! run!" (He was dragging her along, half reluctant, half desirous of some change in that weary day.) Round the corner of the barn; and caught hold of by Michael, who stood there awaiting her. "I don't know," said she, half-laughing, but trying to get away with all her might now; and she was a strong girl, but she could not manage it. "You do. My what is it I want you to be?" "I tell you I don't know, and you had best be quiet, and just let me go in, or I shall think you're as bad now as you were last night." "And how did you know what I was last night? It was past twelve when I came home. Were you watching? Ah, Susan! be my wife, and you shall never have to watch for a drunken husband. If I were your husband, I would come straight home, and count every minute an hour till I saw your bonny face. Now you know what I want you to be. I ask you to be my wife. Will you, my own dear Susan?" She did not speak for some time. Then she only said, “Ask father." And now she was really off like a lapwing round the corner of the barn, and up in her own little room, crying with all her might, before the triumphant smile had left Michael's face where he stood. The Ask father" was a mere form to be gone through. Old Daniel Hurst and William Dixon had talked over what they could respectively give their children, long before this; and that was the parental way of arranging such matters. When the probable amount of worldly gear that he could give his child had been named by each father, the young folk, as they said, might take their own time in coming to the point which the | his future father-in-law set aside a beast or a old men, with the prescience of experience, pig for Susan's portion, which were not saw that they were drifting to; no need to always the best animals of their kind upon hurry them, for they were both young, and the farm. But he also complained of his Michael, though active enough, was too own father's stinginess, which somewhat, thoughtless, old Daniel said, to be trusted though not much, alleviated Susan's dislike with the entire management of a farm. to being awakened out of her pure dream Meanwhile, his father would look about of love to the consideration of worldly him, and see after all the farms that were to wealth. be let. Michael had a shrewd notion of this preliminary understanding between the fathers, and so felt less daunted than he might otherwise have done at making the application for Susan's hand. It was all right, there was not an obstacle; only a deal of good advice, which the lover thought might have as well been spared, and which it must be confessed he did not much attend to, although he assented to every proposition. Then Susan was called down-stairs, and slowly came dropping into view down the steps which led from the two family apartments into the house-place. She tried to look composed and quiet, but it could not be done. She stood side by side with her lover, with her head drooping, her cheeks burning, not daring to look up or move, while her father made the newly-betrothed a somewhat formal address, in which he gave his consent, and many a piece of worldly wisdom beside. Susan listened as well as she could for the beating of her heart; but when her father solemnly and sadly referred to his own lost wife, she could keep from sobbing no longer; but throwing her apron over her face, she sat down on the bench by the dresser, and fairly gave way to pent-up tears. O, how strangely sweet to be comforted as she was comforted, by tender caress, and many a low whispered promise of love. Her father sate by the fire, thinking of the days that were gone; Willie was still out of doors: but Susan and Michael felt no one's presence or absence. they only knew they were together as betrothed husband and wife. 1 In a week or two, they were formally told of the arrangements to be made in their favor. A small farm in the neighborhood happened to fall vacant; and Michael's father offered to take it for him, and be responsible for the rent for the first year, while William Dixon was to contribute a certain amount of stock, and both fathers were to help towards the furnishing of the house. Susan received all this information in a quiet, indifferent way; she did not care much for any of these preparations, which were to hurry her through the happy hours; she cared least of all for the money amount of dowry and of substance. It jarred on her to be made the confidant of occasional slight repinings of Michael's as one by one But in the midst of all this bustle, Willie moped and pined. He had the same chord of delicacy running through his mind that made his body feeble and weak. He kept out of the way, and was apparently occupied in whittling and carving uncouth heads on hazel sticks in an out-house. But he positively avoided Michael, and shrunk away even from Susan. She was too much occupied to notice this at first. Michael pointed it out to her, saying, with a laugh "Look at Willie! he might be a cast-off lover and jealous of me, he looks so dark and downcast at me.' Michael spoke this jest out loud, and Willie burst into tears, and ran out of the house. "Let me go! let me go!" said Susan (for her lover's arm was round her waist). "I must go to him if he 's fretting. I promised mother I would! She pulled herself away, and went in search of the boy. She sought in byre and barn, through the orchard, where indeed in this leafless wintertime there was no great concealment, up into the room where the wool was usually stored in the later summer, and at last she found him, sitting at bay, like some hunted creature, up behind the wood-stack. "What are ye gone for, lad, and me seeking you everywhere?" asked she, breathless. "I did not know you would seek me. I've been away many a time, and no one has cared to seek me," said he, crying afresh. "Nonsense!" replied Susan, "don't be so foolish, ye little good-for-nought." But she crept up to him in the hole he had made underneath the great brown sheafs of wood, and squeezed herself down by him. "What for should folk seek after you, when you get away from them whenever you can?" asked she. "They don't want me to stay. Nobody wants me. If I go with father, he says I hinder more than I help. You used to like to have me with you. But now you've taken up with Michael, and you'd rather I was away; and I can just bide away; but I cannot stand Michael jeering at me. got you to love him, and that might serve him." He's "But I love you, too, dearly, lad!" said she, putting her arm round his neck. "Which on us do you like best?" said he, wistfully, after a little pause, putting itself, and one or two laborers' wives, who her arm away, so that he might look in her would fain have helped her, had not their face, and see if she spoke truth. She went very red. "You should not ask such questions. They are not fit for you to ask. Nor for me to answer." "But mother bade you to love me," said he, plaintively. "And so I do. And so I ever will do. Lover nor husband shall come betwixt thee and me, lad, ne'er a one of them. That I promise thee, as I promised mother before, in the sight of God and with her hearkening now, if ever she can hearken to earthly word again. Only I cannot abide to have thee fretting, just because my heart is large enough for two." "And thou 'lt love me always?" "Always, and ever. And the more - the more thou 'lt love Michael," said she, dropping her voice. "I'll try," said the boy, sighing, for he remembered many a harsh word and blow of which his sister knew nothing. She would have risen up to go away, but he held her tight, for here and now she was all his own, and he did not know when such a time might come again. So the two sate crouched up and silent, till they heard the horn blowing at the field-gate, which was the summons home to any wanderers belonging to the farm, and at this hour of the evening, signified that supper was ready. Then, the two went in. CHAPTER II. SUSAN and Michael were to be married in April. He had already gone to take possession of his new farm, three or four miles away from Yew Nook; but that is neighboring, according to the acceptation of the word, in that thinly-populated district,when William Dixon fell ill. He came home one evening, complaining of head-ache and pains in his limbs, but seemed to loathe the posset which Susan prepared for him; the treacle-posset which was the homely country remedy against an incipient cold. He took it to his bed, with a sensation of exceeding weariness, and an odd, unusual looking-back to the days of his youth, when he was a lad living with his parents, in this very house. The next morning, he had forgotten all his life since then, and did not know his own children, crying, like a newly-weaned baby, for his mother to come and soothe away his terrible pain. The doctor from Coniston said it was the typhus fever, and warned Susan of its infectious character, and shook his head over his patient. There were no friends near to come and share her anxiety; only good, kind old Peggy, who was faithfulness hands been tied by their responsibility to their own families. But, somehow, Susan neither feared nor flagged. As for fear, indeed, she had no time to give way to it, for every energy of both body and mind was required. Besides, the young have had too little experience of the danger of infection to dread it much. She did, indeed, wish, from time to time, that Michael had been at home to have taken Willie over to his father's at High Beck; but then, again, the lad was docile and useful to her, and his fecklessness in many things might make him be harshly treated by strangers, so perhaps it was as well that Michael was away at Appleby fair, or even beyond that; gone into Yorkshire after horses. Her father grew worse; and the doctor insisted on sending over a nurse from Coniston. Not a professed nurse, Coniston could not have supported such a one; but a widow who was ready to go where the doctor sent her for the sake of the payment. When she came, Susan suddenly gave way; she was felled by the fever herself, and lay unconscious for long weeks. Her consciousness returned to her one spring afternoon; early spring; April,- her wedding-month. There was a little fire burning in the small cornergrate, and the flickering of the blaze was enough for her to notice in her weak state. She felt that there was some one sitting on the window side of her bed, behind the curtain, but she did not care to know who it was; it was even too great a trouble to her languid mind to consider who it was likely to be. She would rather shut her eyes, and melt off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next time she wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her movement, and made her a cup of tea, which she drank with eager relish; but still they did not speak, and once more Susan lay motionless-not asleep, but strangely, pleasantly conscious of all the small chamber and household sounds; the fall of a cinder on the hearth, the fitful singing of the half-empty kettle, the cattle tramping out to field again after they had been milked, the aged step on the creaking stair -old Peggy's as she knew. It came to her door, it stopped; the person outside listened for a moment, and then lifted the wooden latch, and looked in. The watcher by the bedside arose, and went to her. Susan would have been glad to see Peggy's face once more, but was far too weak to turn, so she lay and listened. "How is she?" whispered one trembling, aged voice. 66 Better," replied the other. "She's been awake, and had a cup of tea. She'll do end in being a natural, as they call an idiot in the Dales. now. "Has she asked after him?" "Hush! No; she has not spoken a word." "Poor lass! poor lass!" The door was shut. A weak feeling of sorrow and self-pity came over Susan. What was wrong? Whom had she loved? And dawning, dawning slowly, rose the sun of her former life, and all particulars were made distinct to her. She felt that some sorrow was coming to her, and cried over it before she knew what it was, or had strength enough to ask. In the dead of night, and she had never slept again, she softly called to the watcher, and asked, "Who?" "Who what?" replied the woman, with a conscious affright, ill-veiled by a poor assumption of ease. "Lie still, there's a darling, and go to sleep. Sleep's better for you than all the doctor's stuff." The habitual affection and obedience to Susan lasted longer than any other feeling that the boy had had previous to his illness; and perhaps this made her be the last to perceive what every one else had long anticipated. She felt the awakening rude when it did come. It was in this wise. were One June evening she sat out of doors under the yew-tree, knitting. She was pale still from her recent illness; and her languor joined to the fact of her black dress made her look more than usually interesting. She was no longer the buoyant, self-sufficient Susan, equal to every occasion. The men bringing in the cows to be milked, and Michael was about in the yard, giving orders and directions with somewhat the air of a master; for the farm belonged of right to Willie, and Susan had succeeded to the guardianship of her brother. Michael and she were to be married as soon as she was strong enough – so, perhaps, his authoritative manner was justified; but the laborers did not like it, although they said little. They remembered him a stripling on the farm, knowing far less than they did, and often glad to shelter "Well! he 's all right now," she answered, his ignorance of all agricultural matters belooking another way, as if seeking for some-hind their superior knowledge. They would thing. "Who?" repeated Susan. "Something is wrong. Who?" "O, dear!" said the woman. "There's nothing wrong. Willie has taken the turn, and is doing nicely." "Father?" "Then it's Michael. O, me! O, me!" She set up a succession of weak, plaintive, hysterical cries before the nurse could pacify her by declaring that Michael had been at the house not three hours before to ask after her, and looked as well and as hearty as ever man did. "And you heard of no harm to him since?" inquired Susan. "Bless the lass, no, for sure! I've ne 'er heard his name named since I saw him go out of the yard as stout a man as ever trod shoe-leather." have taken orders from Susan with far more willingness; nay! Willie himself might have commanded them, and for the old hereditary feeling towards the owners of land, they would have obeyed him with far greater cordiality than they now showed to Michael. But Susan was tired with even three rounds of knitting, and seemed not to notice, or to care, how things went on around her; and Willie -poor Willie!-there he stood lounging against the door-sill, enormously grown and developed, to be sure, but with restless eyes and ever-open mouth, and every now and then setting up a strange kind of howling cry, and then smiling vacantly to himself at the sound he had made. As the two old laborers passed him, they looked at each other ominously, and shook their heads. "Willie, darling," said Susan, "don't make that noise - it makes my head ache." She spoke feebly, and Willie did not seem to hear; at any rate, he continued his howl from time to time. It was well, as the nurse said afterwards to Peggy, that Susan had been so easily pacified by the equivocating answer in respect to her father. If she had pressed the questions home in his case as she did in Michael's, she would have learnt that he was dead and 'buried more than a month before. It was well, too, that in her weak state of convalescence (which lasted long after this first day of consciousness) her perceptions were not "Hold thy noise, wilt 'a?" said Michael sharp enough to observe the sad change that roughly, as he passed near him, and threathad taken place in Willie. His bodily ening him with his fist. Susan's back was strength returned, his appetite was something turned to the pair. The expression of Wilenormous, but his eyes wandered continually, lie's face changed from vacancy to fear, and his regard could not be arrested, his speech he came shambling up to Susan, and put her became slow, impeded, and incoherent. arm around him; and, as if protected by that People began to say, that the fever had taken away the little wit Willie Dixon had ever possessed, and that they feared that he would shelter, he began pulling faces at Michael. Susan saw what was going on, and, as if now first struck by the strangeness of her broth |