He was his mother's darling, although she loved Susan well.
There was no positive engagement between Michael and Susan--I doubt
whether even plain words of love had been spoken; when one winter-
time Margaret Dixon was seized with inflammation consequent upon a
neglected cold. She had always been strong and notable, and had been
too busy to attend to the early symptoms of illness. It would go
off, she said to the woman who helped in the kitchen; or if she did
not feel better when they had got the hams and bacon out of hand, she
would take some herb-tea and nurse up a bit. But Death could not
wait till the hams and bacon were cured: he came on with rapid
strides, and shooting arrows of portentous agony. Susan had never
seen illness--never knew how much she loved her mother till now, when
she felt a dreadful, instinctive certainty that she was losing her.
Her mind was thronged with recollections of the many times she had
slighted her mother's wishes; her heart was full of the echoes of
careless and angry replies that she had spoken. What would she not
now give to have opportunities of service and obedience, and trials
of her patience and love, for that dear mother who lay gasping in
torture! And yet Susan had been a good girl and an affectionate
daughter.
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