minute, then asked fiercely:

'What's gone with that sixpence I left on the dresser?'

Jane looked up in terror. She was worn almost to the last point of
endurance by her day and night of labour and agitation. Her face was
bloodless, her eyelids were swollen with the need of sleep.

'Sixpence!' she faltered, 'I'm sure I haven't seen no sixpence,
miss.'

'You haven't? Now, I've caught you at last. There's been nobody 'ere
but you. Little thief! We'll see about this in the mornin', an'
to-night _you shall sleep in the back-kitchen_!'

The child gasped for breath. The terror of sudden death could not
have exceeded that which rushed upon her heart when she was told
that she must pass her night in the room where lay the coffin.

'An' you shan't have no candle, neither,' proceeded Clem, delighted
with the effect she was producing. 'Come along! I'm off to bed, an'
I'll see you safe locked in first, so as no one can come an' hurt
you.'

'Miss! please!--I can't, I durstn't!'

Jane pleaded in inarticulate anguish. But Clem had caught her by the
arm, was dragging her on, on, till she was at the very door of that
ghastly death-cellar. Though thirteen years old, her slight frame
was as incapable of resisting Clem Peckover's muscles as an infant's