"I suppose it was then as she dropped the purse, and it got swept
away in all the confusion that followed," continued Jane, now placing
herself in front of Lydia, and gazing at her.
Lydia was helping herself to another mutton-chop, and began to feel
a little uncomfortable.
"When was Mrs. Bell last in the attics?" she said.
"I was with her," continued Jane. "I used to play a good bit with
Missie Mercy in those days, you remember, ma'am? Mrs. Bell was poking
about, but I was anxious for Mercy to come home to go on with our
play, and I went to the window. I looked out. There was a fine view
from that 'ere attic window. I looked out, and I saw--"
"What?" asked Lydia Purcell. She had laid down her knife and fork
now, and her face had grown a trifle pale.
"Oh! nothing much. I saw you, ma'am, and Missie Mercy going into
that poor mason's cottage, him as died of the malignant fever. You
was there a good half hour or so. It was a day or two later as poor
Missie sickened."
"I did not think it was fever," said Lydia. "Believe me, believe me,
Jane, I did not know it certainly until we were leaving the cottage.
Oh! my poor lamb, my poor innocent, innocent murdered lamb!"
Lydia covered her face with her hands; she was trembling. Even her
strong, hard-worked hands were white from the storm of feeling within.
"You knew of this, you knew this of me all these years, and you
never told. You never told even _me_ until to-night," said Lydia
presently, raising a haggard face.
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