"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. A moment later Lydia Purcell, candle in hand, came out, on her way to her bedroom. Jane slipped off her shoes, glided after her just far enough to see that she held a candle in one hand and a brandy bottle in the other.
"God forgive me for driving her to it, but I had to get the purse," muttered Jane to herself. "I'm safe to get the purse now."