"But," I said, "do you trust—"
"Trust her? Yes. A woman never cries like that when she's lying, Bertram. Listen: she came to New York from Grassy Ford. He was nowhere to be found. He had given her a false address. Then a little girl was born—dead. Oh, you can't imagine what that child's been through, Bertram—the disgrace, the sorrow, the rags and poverty, hunger even—and only think how we were eating and sleeping soundly in Grassy Ford, all that time she was starving here! Then temptations came in this miserable, this wicked, wicked place! Oh, how can man—Well—she did not dare to come home, but stayed on here. It was then she took the name Suzanne, to hide her real one. Twice—twice, Bertram—she went down to the river—"
Letitia's voice was breaking.
"Oh, I can't tell you all she told me. But just when it all seemed darkest, she met this good, kind woman with whom she lives."
"What!" I said. "Did she tell you that?"
"Bertram, that woman saved her!—saved her from worse than death—took her from the very street—clothed her, fed her, and nursed her to health again. Did you see her dress? It was finest silk and lace. Did you see the rings on her fingers? One was a diamond, Bertram, as large as the pearl you wear; one was an opal, set in pearls; another, a ruby—and she told me she had a dozen more up-stairs."
"Who is this woman?"
"She did not tell me. I forgot to ask."
"What was the promise she made you?"
"To visit us—to come next summer to Grassy Ford."