"I
won't never play with the fire again; and I'll not cry if Michael
does kick me. Only don't look so like dead mother--don't--don't--
please don't!" he exclaimed, hiding his face on her shoulder.
"I'm not angry, Willie," said she. "Don't be feared on me. You want
your supper, and you shall have it; and don't you be feared on
Michael. He shall give reason for every hair of your head that he
touches--he shall."
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 than on the preceding night,
before he returned--at any rate, past her usual bed-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. Here she sat and watched till
past midnight; and when she saw him coming up the brow with the
carts, she knew full well, even in that faint moonlight, that his
gait was the gait of a man in liquor.
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