“There was a faint splash in the water,” I went on; “it was all over in less than a second, and then the swift waves rolled on as before.  The woman stood motionless.  When she turned to leave the spot the moon shone full on her face—­ghastly, desperate and beautiful—­he saw it as plainly as I see the river here.  He heard her as plainly as I hear the river here.  She cried aloud as she went away, ’Oh, my God, if I dare—­if I dare!’ Can you tell what happened?  Listen how wonderful are the ways of God, who hates murder and punishes it.  She flung the burden into the sea, feeling sure it would sink; but it caught—­the black and gray shawl caught—­on some hooks that had been driven into the outer woodwork of the pier; it caught and hung there, the shawl moving to and fro with every breath of wind and every wave.”

Without a word or a cry she fell with her face in the grass.  Oh, Heaven, be pitiful to all who are stricken and guilty!  I went on quickly: 

“A boatman found it, and the bundle contained a little drowned child—­a fair waxen babe, beautiful even though it had lain in the salt, bitter waters of the green sea all night.  Now comes the horror, Mrs. Fleming.  When the man, who saw the scene went after some years to visit the friend whom he loved so dearly, he recognized in that friend’s wife the woman who threw the child into the sea!”

Again came the sound that was like nothing human.

“What was that man to do?” I asked.  “He could not be silent; the friend who loved and trusted him must have been most basely deceived—­he could not hide a murder; yet the woman was so lovely, so lovable; she was seemingly so good, so charitable, so devoted to her husband, that he was puzzled, tortured; at last he resolved upon telling her.  I have told you.”

Then silence, deep and awful, fell over us; it lasted until I saw that I must break it.  She lay motionless on the ground, her face buried in the grass.

“What should you have done in that man’s place, Mrs. Fleming?” I asked.

Then she raised her face; it was whiter, more despairing, more ghastly than I had seen it on the pier.

“I knew it must come,” she wailed.  “Oh, Heaven, how often have I dreaded this—­I knew from the first.”

“Then it was you?” I said.

“It was me,” she replied.  “I need not try to hide it any longer, why should I?  Every leaf on every tree, every raindrop that has fallen, every wind that has whispered has told it aloud ever since.  If I hide it from you someone else will start up and tell.  If I deny it, then the very stones in the street will cry it out.  Yes, it was me—­wretched, miserable me—­the most miserable, the most guilty woman alive—­it was me.”

My heart went out to her in fullness of pity—­poor, unhappy woman! sobbing her heart out; weeping, as surely no one ever wept before.  I wished that Heaven had made anyone else her judge than me.  Then she sat up facing me, and I wondered what the judge must think when the sentence of death passes his lips.  I knew that this was the sentence of death for this woman.