you do such a clumsy thing
before."

She was deadly pale, her hand shaking.

"I have frightened myself," she said, "and no wonder with such a noise."

A servant came, who made everything right.

Then Lance continued, "You interrupted me, Frances. I was just saying
that child-murder is one of the greatest blots on the civilization of
the present day."

"It is such a horrible thing to speak of," she said, feebly.

"It wants some speaking about," said Lance. "I never take up a paper
without reading one or two cases. I wonder that the Government does not
take it up and issue some decree or other. It is a blot on the face of
the land."

"I do not suppose that any decree of Government would change it," I
said; "the evil lies too deeply for that; the law should be made equal;
as it is, the whole blame, shame and punishment fall on the woman, while
the man goes free; there will be no change for the better while that is
the case. I have not patience to think of the irregularity of the law."

"You are right, John," said my old friend. "Still, cruelty in a woman is
so horrible, and the woman must be as cruel as a demon who deserts or
slays her own child. If I had my own way, I would hang every one who
does it; there would soon be an end of it then."

There was a low startled cry, and the paper fell to the ground. Mrs.
Fleming rose from her chair with a ghastly face.

"Frances!" cried her husband, "what is the matter?"

"You will talk of such horrible things," she replied, vehemently, "and
you know that I cannot bear them."

"Sweetheart," he whispered, as he kissed her, "I will be more careful. I
know a sensitive heart like yours cannot bear the knowledge of such
things. You must forgive me, Frances, but to me there is something far
more loathing in the woman who kills a child than in the woman who slays
a man. Do not look so pale and grieved, my darling! John, we must be
more careful what we say."

"I must beg you to remember that you began the subject, Lance."

"I am ashamed of making such a fuss," she continued, "but there are some
subjects too horrible even to dwell upon or speak of, and that is one. I
am going into the garden, Lance; perhaps you and Mr. Ford would like
your cigars there? I am going to prune a favorite rose tree that is
growing wild."

"Do you understand pruning, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.

"Such small things as rose trees," she said.

"We will follow you, Frances," said her husband. "My case