“I cannot—I do not know. It is at the bank—in the bank.”
CHAPTER LXIII.
THE IRON-BOUND BOX.
Jane Kelly sat down resolutely and went on with her supper. The old woman watched each mouthful that she swallowed, with working lips and eyes that grew fiercer and larger each moment.
“Oh, mother of heaven, I shall die!” she sobbed out at last, throwing her flail-like arms over her head. “Give me something to eat—give me something to eat, or I will tear you—tear you in pieces!”
Jane lifted her face and looked composedly on this burst of agony. Then without a word she went on with her meal. When she saw this, tears began to stream over the old woman’s face; when she heard Madame De Marke pleading piteously for a single crumb of the bread, or one little mouthful of the steak—“One crumb, one mouthful, she would be content with that,” Jane still never spoke, but enjoyed her meal in stubborn silence.
“Do you hear?—oh! Jane, do you hear me?”
“Yes, I hear!”
“One mouthful, only one mouthful, dear, good Jane!”
“The box, only the box, dear, good madam!” was the mocking answer.
“Oh! will nothing but the box answer? Am I to starve?”