om his companion his
expression altered. It was as though he put from him the external
incidents and considerations with which he had been dealing, and the
vivacity of manner which fitted them. Feelings and forces of another
kind emerged, clothing themselves in the beauty of an incomparable
voice, and in an aspect of humane and melancholy dignity.

He turned to Lady Lucy.

"Now then," he said, gently, "I am in a position to put the matter to
you finally, as--before God--it appears to me. Juliet Sparling--as I
said to Oliver last night--was not a bad woman! She sinned deeply, but
she was never false to her husband in thought or deed; none of her
wrong-doing was deliberate; she was tortured by remorse; and her
murderous act was the impulse of a moment, and partly in self-defence.
It was wholly unpremeditated; and it killed her no less than her victim.
When, next day, she was removed by the police, she was already a dying
woman. I have in my possession a letter--written to me by her--after her
release, in view of her impending death, by the order of the Home
Office--a few days before she died. It is humble--it is
heart-rending--it breathes the sincerity of one who had turned all her
thoughts from earth; but it thanked me for having read her aright; and
if ever I could have felt a doubt of my own interpretation of the
case--but, thank God, I never did!--that letter would have shamed it
out of me! Poor soul, poor soul! She sinned, and she suffered--agonies,
beyond any penalty of man's inflicting. Will you prolong her punishment
in her child?"

Lady Lucy had covered her face with her hand. He saw her breath flutter
in her breast. And sitting down beside her, blanched by the effort he
had made, and by the emotion he had at last permitted himself, yet
fixing his eyes steadily on the woman before him, he waited for
her reply.

CHAPTER XII

Lady Lucy did not reply at once. She slowly drew forward the neglected
tea-table, made tea, and offered it to Sir James. He took it
impatiently, the Irish blood in him running hot and fast; and when she
had finished her cup, and still the silence lasted, except for the
trivial question-and-answer of the tea-making, he broke in upon it with
a somewhat peremptory--

"Well?"

Lady Lucy clasped her hands on her lap. The hand which had been so far
bare was now gloved like the other, and something in the spectacle of
the long fingers, calmly interlocked and clad in spotless white k