Simple Susan

At once Attorney Case walked over to Farmer Price's cottage. He found Susan packing her father's little wardrobe, and as she looked up, he saw she had been in tears.

"How is your mother to-day, Susan?" inquired the Attorney.

"Worse, sir. My father goes to-morrow."

"That's a pity."

"It can't be helped," said Susan, with a sigh.

"It can't be helped—how do you know that?" said Mr. Case.

"Sir, dear sir!" cried she, looking up at him, and a sudden ray of hope beamed in her sweet face.

"What if you could help it, Susan?" he said.

Susan clasped her hands in silence.

"You can help it, Susan." She started up. "What would you give now to have your father at home for a whole week longer?"

"Anything!—but I have nothing."

"Yes, you have a lamb," said the hard-hearted Attorney.

"My poor little Daisy!" said Susan; "but what good can she do?"

"What good can any lamb do? Is not lamb good to eat? Why do you look so pale, girl? Are not sheep killed every day, and don't you eat mutton? Is your lamb better than anybody else's, think you?"

"I don't know," said Susan, "but I love her dearly."

"More silly you," said he.

"She feeds out of my hand, she follows me about; I have always taken care of her; my mother gave her to me."

"Well, say no more about it, then; if you love your lamb better than both your father and your mother, keep it, and good morning to you."

"Stay, oh stay!" cried Susan, catching his coat with an eager, trembling hand—"a whole week, did you say? My mother may get better in that time. No, I do not love Daisy half so well." The struggle in her mind ceased, and with a calm voice she said, "Take the lamb."

"Where is it?" said the Attorney.

"Grazing in the meadow, by the river-side."

"It must be brought up before nightfall for the butcher, remember."

"I shall not forget it," said Susan, steadily.

As soon, however, as the cruel man turned his back and left the house, Susan sat down, and hid her face in her hands. She was soon roused by the sound of her mother's feeble voice calling her from the inner room where she lay. Susan went in.

"Are you there, love? I thought I heard some strange voice just now talking to my child. Something's amiss, Susan," her mother went on, raising herself as well as she could in bed, to look at her daughter's face.

"Would you think it amiss, then, my dear mother," said Susan, stooping to kiss her—"would you think it amiss if my father was to stay with us a week longer?"

"Susan! you don't say so?"

"He is, indeed, a whole week—but how burning hot your hand is still."

"Are you sure he will stay?" asked her mother. "How do you know? Who told you so? Tell me all quick!"

"Attorney Case told me so; he can get him leave for a week longer, and he has promised he will."

"God bless him for it for ever and ever!" said the poor woman, joining her hands. "May the blessing of Heaven be with him!"

Susan was silent. The next moment she was called out of the room, for a messenger had come from the Abbey for the bread-bill. Susan always made out the bills, for although she had not had many writing-lessons, she had taken great pains to learn, and wrote in a neat, clear hand. It is true she was in no mood to write or add now, but the work must be done. Having carefully ruled lines for the pounds, shillings and pence, she made out the bill and gave it to the boy who waited for it. Then she said to herself she would make out the other bills, for many of the people in the village had bought a few loaves and rolls of her making. "And when these are done, I may go down to the meadow to take leave of my poor lamb."

But Susan could not find her slate, and when she did find it many of the figures were blurred, for Barbara had sat upon it. And then the numbers seemed to dance before her, and each time that she added, the answer was different. She went over and over the sums until her head ached. The table was covered with little square bits of paper on which she had written the bills when her father came in, holding in his hand an account.

"Look at this, Susan!" he said, handing it to her. "How could you be so careless, child? What have you been thinking about to let a bill like that go to the Abbey? Luckily, I met the messenger and asked to see how much it was. Look at it."

Susan looked and blushed. Instead of "loaves" she had written "lambs." She altered the mistake and handed the bill to her father. He, meantime, was looking at the papers lying on the table.

"What are all these, child?" he asked.

"Some of them were wrong, and I wrote them out again."

"Some of them! All of them as far as I can see," said her father rather angrily, pointing to the papers.

Susan read the bills. Most of them were for lambs instead of for loaves or rolls. Her thoughts had indeed been running upon the pet she was to part with so soon.

Once more she wrote the bills, and her father, who was struck by the patient way she set to work, said he would himself collect the money. He would be proud to be able to say to the neighbors that it was all earned by his own little daughter. Susan heard him sigh as he passed the knapsack she had packed for him, but she thought she would keep the pleasure of telling him of his week's leave until he came home. He had said he would have supper in her mother's room. She would tell the good news then. "How delighted he will be when he hears," she said to herself, "but I know he will be sorry too for poor Daisy."

Susan thought she would now have time to run down to the meadow by the river-side to see her favorite, but just as she had tied on her straw hat the clock struck four. This was the hour at which she always went to fetch her brothers from the school near the village. So, as she knew that the little boys would be sorry if she were late, she put off her visit to the lamb and went at once to meet them.

VI

THE BLIND HARPER

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