And by-and-by she heard her father come home, stumbling uncertain, trying first the windows, and next the door-fastenings, with many a loud, incoherent murmur. The little innocent twined around her seemed all the sweeter and more lovely, when she thought sadly of her erring father; And presently he called aloud for a light; she had left matches and all arranged as usual on the dresser, but, fearful of some accident from fire, in his unusually intoxicated state, she now got up softly, and putting on a cloak, went down to his assistance. Alas! the little arms that were unclosed from her soft neck belonged to a light, easily awakened sleeper. Nanny missed her darling Susy, and terrified at being left alone in the vast, mysterious darkness, which had no bounds, and seemed infinite, she slipped out of bed, and tottered in her little night-gown toward the door. There was a light below, and there was Susy and safety! So she went onward two steps toward the steep, abrupt stairs; and then dazzled with sleepiness, she stood, she wavered, she fell! Down on her head, on the stone floor she fell! Susan flew to her, and spoke all soft, entreating, loving words; but her white lids covered, up the blue violets of eyes, and there was no murmur came out of the pale lips. The warm tears that rained down, did not awaken her; she lay stiff, and weary with her short life, on Susan's knee. Susan went sick with terror. She carried her up-stairs, and laid her tenderly in bed; she dressed herself most hastily, with her trembling fingers. Her father was asleep on the settle down stairs; and useless, and worse than useless if awake. But Susan flew out of the door, and down the quiet, resounding street, toward the nearest doctor's house. Quickly she went; but as quickly a shadow followed, as if impelled by some sudden terror. Susan rung wildly at the night-bell--the shadow crouched near. The doctor looked out from an up-stairs window. "A little child has fallen down stairs at No. 9, Crown-street, and is very ill--dying I'm afraid. Please, for God's sake, sir, come directly. No. 9, Crown-street." "I'll be there directly," said he, and shut the window. "For that God you have just spoken about--for His sake--tell me are you Susan Palmer? Is it my child that lies a-dying?" said the shadow, springing forward, and clutching poor Susan's arm. "It is a little child of two years old--I do not know whose it is; I love it as my own. Come with me, whoever you are; come with me." The two sped along the silent streets--as silent as the night were they. They entered the house; Susan snatched up the light, and carried it up-stairs. The other followed.