Mrs. Fleming was not at her ease with me. I found her several times
watching me with a curious, intent gaze, seeking, as it were, to pierce
my thoughts, to dive into my motives, but always puzzled--even as I was
puzzled over her. That round of visiting made me more loath than ever to
believe that I was right. Such gentle thought and care, such
consideration, such real charity, I had never seen before. I was not
surprised when Lance told me that she was considered quite an angel by
the poor. I fell ill with anxiety. I never knew what to say or think.

I did what many others in dire perplexity do, I went to one older, wiser
and better than myself, a white-haired old minister, whom I had known
for many years, and in whom I had implicit trust. I mentioned no names,
but I told him the story.

He was a kind-hearted, compassionate man, but he decided that the
husband should be told.

Such a woman, he said, must have unnatural qualities; could not possibly
be one fitted for any man to trust. She might be insane. She might be
subject to mania--a thousand things might occur which made it, he
thought, quite imperative that such a secret should not be withheld from
her husband.

Others had had a share in it, and there was no doubt but that it would
eventually become known; better hear it from the lips of a friend than
from the lips of a foe.

"Perhaps," he advised, "it might be as well for you to speak to her
first; it would give her a fair chance."

If it were not true, she could deny it, although if she proved to be
innocent, and I had made a mistake, I deserved what I should no doubt
get; if she were guilty and owned it, she would have some warning at
least. That seemed to me the best plan, if I could speak to her; break
it to her in some way or other.

A few more days passed. If any doubt was left in my mind, what happened
one morning at breakfast would have satisfied me. Lance had taken up the
paper. I was reading some letters, and Mrs. Fleming making tea.

Lance looked suddenly from his paper.

"I used to think drink was the greatest curse in England," he said.

"Have you changed your opinion?" I asked.

"I have. I think now the crying sin of the country is child-murder."

As he uttered the words his wife was just in the act of pouring some
cream into my cup; it did not surprise me that the pretty silver jug and
the cream all fell together. Lance laughed aloud.

"Why, Frances," he cried; "I have never seen