“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy. “In this very room⁠—in this very bed⁠—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’, that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think⁠—what was the year again!”

“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”

“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, “what about her?⁠—what about⁠—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head⁠—“I robbed her, so I did! She wasn’t cold⁠—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”

“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help.