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A Little Mother to the Others by L. T. Meade
page 43 of 308 (13%)
"Jane was always the one to poke her finger into every pie," he said
half aloud. "Certainly this place is distasteful to me now, and there
is--upon my word, there is something in her suggestion. But to deliver
over those four children to her, and to take them away from the
garden, and the house, and the memory of their mother--oh! it cannot
be thought of for a moment; and yet, to shift the responsibility while
my heart is so sore would be an untold relief."

A little voice in the distance was heard shouting eagerly, and a small
child, very dirty about the hands and face, came trotting up to Mr.
Delaney. It was Diana. She was sobbing as well as shouting, and was
holding something tenderly wrapped up in her pocket handkerchief.

"What is the matter with you, Di?" said her father. He lifted her into
his arms. "Why, little woman, what can be the matter? and what have
you got in your handkerchief?"

"It's Rub-a-Dub, and he is deaded," answered Diana. She unfolded the
handkerchief carefully and slowly, and showed her father a small
piebald mouse, quite dead, and with a shriveled appearance. "He is as
dead as he can be," repeated Diana. "Look at him. His little claws are
blue, and oh! his little nose, and he cannot see; he is stone dead,
father."

"Well, you shall go into Beaminster to-morrow and buy another mouse,"
said Mr. Delaney.

Diana gazed at him with grave, wondering black eyes.

"That would not be Rub-a-Dub," she said; then she buried her little,
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