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 ?" I shall not forget her.

She sprang from the ground where she had been kneeling and stood erect before me.
"No, thank Heaven! I am not that," she said; "I am everything else that is base and vile, but not that." "You were that, indeed," I replied.