Susan sat down upon the bank in silent sorrow; her little brothers ran up to the butcher, and demanded whether he was going to _do any harm_ to the lamb. The butcher did not answer, but the attorney replied, “It is not your sister’s lamb any longer; it’s mine—mine to all intents and purposes.” “Yours!” cried the children, with terror; “and will you kill it?” “That’s the butcher’s business.” The little boys now burst into piercing lamentations. They pushed away the butcher’s hand; they threw their arms round the neck of the lamb; they kissed its forehead—it bleated. “It will not bleat to-morrow!” said William, and he wept bitterly. The butcher looked aside, and hastily rubbed his eyes with the corner of his blue apron. The attorney stood unmoved; he pulled up the head of the lamb, which had just stooped to crop a mouthful of clover. “I have no time to waste,” said he; “butcher, you’ll account with me. If it’s fat—the sooner the better. I’ve no more to say.” And he walked off, deaf to the prayers of the poor children. As soon as the attorney was out of sight, Susan rose from the bank where she was seated, came up to her lamb, and stooped to gather some of the fresh dewy trefoil, to let it eat out of her hand for the last time. Poor Daisy licked her well known hand. “Now, let us go,” said Susan. “I’ll wait as long as you please,” said the butcher. Susan thanked him, but walked away quickly, without looking again at her lamb. Her little brothers begged the man to stay a few minutes, for they had gathered a handful of blue speedwell and yellow crowsfoot, and they were decking the poor animal. As it followed the boys through the village, the children collected as they passed, and the butcher’s own son was amongst the number. Susan’s steadiness about the bad shilling was full in this boy’s memory; it had saved him a beating. He went directly to his father to beg the life of Susan’s lamb. “I was thinking about it, boy, myself,” said the butcher; “it’s a sin to kill a _pet lamb_, I’m thinking—any way, it’s what I’m not used to, and don’t fancy doing, and I’ll go and say as much to Attorney Case; but he’s a hard man; there’s but one way to deal with him, and that’s the way I must take, though so be I shall be the loser thereby; but we’ll say nothing to the boys, for fear it might be the thing would not take; and then it would be worse again to poor Susan, who is a good girl, and always was, as well as she may, being of a good breed, and well reared from the first.” “Come, lads, don’t keep a crowd and a scandal about my door,” continued he, aloud, to the children; “turn the lamb in here, John, in the paddock, for to-night, and go your ways home.” The crowd dispersed, but murmured, and the butcher went to the attorney. “Seeing that all you want is a good, fat, tender lamb, for a present for Sir Arthur, as you told me,” said the butcher, “I could let you have what’s as good or better for your purpose.”