“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 is empty; I must get some more cigars.”

I fancied that she was unwilling to leave us together.  She lingered a few minutes, then went out.  Then simple, honest Lance turned to me with his face full of animation.

“John, did you ever see such a tender-hearted woman in all your life?  She is almost too sensitive.”

My suspicions were certainties now, and my mind was more than ever tossed and whirled in tortured doubt and dread.  I shall never forget one evening that came soon afterwards.  We went to dine with a friend of Lance’s, a Squire Peyton, who lived not far away, and he was the possessor of some very fine pictures, of which he was very proud.  He took us through his pretty arranged gallery.

“This is my last purchase,” he said.

We all three stopped to look at a large square picture representing the mother of the little Moses placing his cradle of rushes amongst the tall reeds in the water.

I saw Mrs. Fleming look at it with eyes that were wet with tears.

“Does it sadden you?” asked Lance.  “It need not; the little one looks young and tender to be left alone, but the water is silent and the mother is near.  She never left him.  What a pretty story of mother-love it is.”

The beautiful face paled, the lips trembled slightly.

“It is a beautiful picture,” she said, “to come from that land of darkness; it makes something of the poetry of the Nile.”

Watching her, I said to myself, “That woman has not deadened her conscience; she has tried and failed.  There is more good than evil in her.”

All night long there sounded in my ears those words, “A life for a life!” And I wondered what would, what could, be the punishment of a mother who took the life of her own child?

CHAPTER X.