"I knew it, and I never told even you until to-night," repeated Jane.
"Why do you tell me to-night?"
"May I take away the supper, ma'am, or shall you want any more?"
"No, no! take it away, take it away! You _don't_ know what I
have suffered, girl; to be the cause, through my own carelessness, of
the death of the one creature I loved. And--and--yes, I will tell the
truth--I had heard rumors; yes, I had heard rumors, but I would not
heed them. I was fearless of illness myself, and I wanted a new gown
fitted. Oh! my lamb, my pretty, pretty lamb!"
"Well, ma'am, nobody ever suspected it was you, and 'tis many years
ago now. You don't fret. Good-night, ma'am!"
Lydia gave a groan, and Jane, outside the door, shook her own hand
at herself.
"Ain't I a hard-hearted wretch to see her like that and not try to
comfort? Well, I wonder if Jesus was there would He try a bit of
comforting? But I'm out of all patience. Such feeling for a child as
is dead and don't need it, and never a bit for a poor little living
child, who is, by the same token, as like that poor Mercy as two peas
is like each other."
Jane felt low-spirited for a minute or two, but by the time she
returned to the empty kitchen she began to cheer up.
"I did it well. I think I'll get the purse back," she said to herself.
She sat down, put out the light, and prepared to wait patiently.
For an hour there was absolute stillness, then there was a slight
stir in the little parlor.
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