"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.
"Did you—did you do that?" she moaned. "How good you are, but you will not tell him. I was mad when I did that, mad as women often are, with sorrow, shame and despair. I will suffer anything if you will only promise not to tell Lance."
"Do you think it is fair," I asked, "that he should be so cruelly deceived?—that he should lavish the whole love of his heart upon a murderess?"