At length a sound--the mother and son both rushed speechless towards the side-window, from which it came. The window creaked slowly open, and a head, which was not Susan's, looked cautiously out. "Who is there?" cried a strange voice; it's some mistake. This is Mrs. Vincent's, this is, and nobody's at home. If you don't go away I'll spring the rattle, and call Thieves, thieves--Fire! What do you mean coming rousing folks like this in the dead of night?" "Oh, Williams, are you there? Thank God!--then all is well," said Mrs. Vincent, clasping her hands. "It is I--you need not be afraid--I and my son: don't disturb Miss Susan, since she has not heard us--but come down, and let us in;--don't disturb my daughter. It is I--don't you know my voice?" "Good Lord!" cried the speaker at the window; then in a different tone, "I'm coming, ma'am--I'm coming." Instinctively, without knowing why, Vincent drew his mother's arm within his own, and held her fast. Instinctively the widow clung to him, and kept herself erect by his aid. They did not say a word--no advices now about composing his countenance. Mrs. Vincent's face was ghastly, had there been any light to see it. She went sheer forward when the door was open, as though neither her eyes nor person were susceptible of any other motion. An inexpressible air of desolation upon the cottage parlour, where everything looked far too trim and orderly for recent domestic occupation, brought to a climax all the fanciful suggestions which had been tormenting Vincent. He called out his sister's name in an involuntary outburst of dread and excitement, "Susan! Susan!" The words pealed into the midnight echoes--but there was no Susan to answer to the call. "It is God that keeps her asleep to keep her happy," said his mother, with her white lips. She dropt from his arm upon the sofa in a dreadful pause of determination, facing them with wide-open eyes--daring them to undeceive her--resolute not to hear the terrible truth, which already in her heart she knew. "Susan is asleep, asleep!" she cried, in a terrible idiocy of despair, always facing the frightened woman before her with those eyes which knew better, but would not be undeceived. The shivering midnight, the mother's dreadful looks, the sudden waking to all this fright and wonder, were too much for the terrified guardian of the house. She fell on her knees at the widow's feet. "Oh, Lord! Miss Susan's gone! I'd have kep her if I had been here. I'd have said her mamma would never send no gentleman but Mr. Arthur to fetch her away. But she's gone. Good Lord! it's killed my missis--I knew it would kill my missis. Oh, good Lord! good Lord! Run for a doctor, Mr. Arthur; if the missis is gone, what shall we do?"