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The Children's Pilgrimage by L. T. Meade
page 92 of 317 (29%)
"Oh! nothing much. I saw you, ma'am, and Missie Mercy going into
that poor mason's cottage, him as died of the malignant fever. You
was there a good half hour or so. It was a day or two later as poor
Missie sickened."

"I did not think it was fever," said Lydia. "Believe me, believe me,
Jane, I did not know it certainly until we were leaving the cottage.
Oh! my poor lamb, my poor innocent, innocent murdered lamb!"

Lydia covered her face with her hands; she was trembling. Even her
strong, hard-worked hands were white from the storm of feeling within.

"You knew of this, you knew this of me all these years, and you
never told. You never told even _me_ until to-night," said Lydia
presently, raising a haggard face.

"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
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