Half a Life-time Ago

ing, according to the acceptation of the word in that thinly-populated district,— when William Dixon fell ill. He came home one evening, complaining of head-ache and

and an odd, unusual looking-back to the days of his youth, w

gy, who was faithfulness itself, and one or two labourers’ wives, who would fain have helped her, had not their hands been tied by their responsibility to their own families. But, somehow, Susan neither feared nor flagged. As for fear, indeed, she had no time to give way to it, for every energy of both body and mind was required. Besides, the young have had too little experience of the danger of infect

o notice in her weak state. She felt that there was some one sitting on the window-side of her bed, behind the curtain, but she did not care to know who it was; it was even too great a trouble for her languid mind to consider who it was likely to be. She would rather shut her eyes, and melt off again into the gentle luxury of sleep. The next time she wakened, the Coniston nurse perceived her movement, and made her a cup of tea, which she drank with eager relish; but still they did not speak, and once more Susan lay motionless — not asleep, but strangely, ple

ispered one trem

“She’s been awake, and had

asked a

he has not s

ass! po

e sun of her former life, and all particulars were made distinct to her. She felt that some sorrow was coming to her, and cried over it before she

ho

ed by a poor assumption of ease. “Lie still, there’s a darling, an

Susan. “Somethin

e’s nothing wrong. Willie has tak

the

e answered, looking another wa

l cries before the nurse could pacify her, by declaring that Michael had been at the house

no harm to him sin

d his name named since I saw him go out of the

It was well, too, that in her weak state of convalescence (which lasted long after this first day of consciousness) her perceptions were not sharp enough to observe the sad change that had taken place in Willie. His bodily strength returned, his appetite was something enormous, but his eyes wan

had had previous to his illness; and, perhaps, this made her be the last to perceive what every

re to be married as soon as she was strong enough — so, perhaps, his authoritative manner was justified; but the labourers did not like it, although they said little. They remembered a stripling on the farm, knowing far less than they did, and often glad to shelter his ignorance of all agricultural matters behind their superior knowledge. They would have taken orders from Susan with far more willingness; nay, Willie himself might have commanded them; and from the old hereditary feeling toward the owners of land, they would have obeyed him with far grea

san, “don’t make that nois

ot seem to hear; at any rate, he c

cancy to fear, and he came shambling up to Susan, who put her arm round him, and, as if protected by that shelter, he began making faces at Michael. Susan saw what was going on, and, as if no

ly — he never was as wise as other folk, a

ed long and wistfully at Willie’s face, as he watched the motion of the duc

said Susan, instinctively adopting the form o

he replied, clapping his h

making a strong effort at self-contr

e began to cry at the vainness of the effort to recall her name. He hid his face upon her shoulder with the old affectionate trick of manner. She put him gently away, and went into the house into her own little bedroom. She locked the do