“You never knew what passed after, did you?” I asked.

“No—­not at all,” was the half sullen reply—­“not at all.”

“Did you never purchase a Brighton paper, or look into a London paper to see?”

“No,” she replied.

“Then I will tell you,” I said, and I told her all that had passed.  How the people had stood round the little baby, and the men cursed the cruel hands that had drowned the little babe.

“Did they curse my hands?” she asked, and I saw her looking at them in wonder.

“Yes; the men said hard words, but the women were pitiful and kind; one kissed the little face, dried it, and kissed it with tears in her eyes.  Was it your own child?”

There was a long pause, a long silence, a terrible few minutes, and then she answered: 

“Yes, it was my child!”

Her voice was full of despair; she folded her hands and laid them on her lap.

“I knew it must come,” she said.  “Now, let me try to think what I must do.  I meet now that which I have dreaded so long.  Oh, Lance! my love, Lance! my love, Lance!  You will not tell him?” she cried, turning to me with impassioned appeal.  “You will not!—­you could not break his heart and mine!—­you could not kill me!  Oh, for Heaven’s sake, say you will not tell him?”

Then I found her on her knees at my feet, sobbing passionate cries—­I must not tell him, it would kill him, She must go away, if I said she must; she would go from the heart and the home where she had nestled in safety so long; she would die; she would do anything, if only I would not tell him.  He had loved and trusted her so—­she loved him so dearly.  I must not tell.  If I liked, she would go to the river and throw herself in.  She would give her life freely, gladly—­if only I would not tell him.

So I sat holding, as it were, the passionate, aching heart in my hand.

“You must calm yourself,” I said.  “Let us talk reasonably.  We cannot talk while you are like this.”

She beat her white hands together, and I could not still her cries; they were all for “Lance!”—­“her love, Lance!”

CHAPTER XI.

“You must listen to me,” I said; “I want you to see how truly this is the work of Providence, and not of mere chance.”

I told her how I often had been attracted to the pier; I told her all that was said by the crowd around; of the man who carried the little dead child to the work-house; of the tiny little body that lay in its white dress in the bare, large, desolate room, and of the flowers that the kindly matron had covered it with.

I told her how I had taken compassion on the forlorn little creature, had purchased its grave, and of the white stone with “Marah” upon it.

“Marah, found drowned.”  And then, poor soul—­poor, hapless soul, she clung to my hands and covered them with kisses and tears.