I could see again the pure little waxen face, as the kindly woman kissed it on the pier.

I could see the little green grave with the shining cross--"Marah, found drowned," and here beside me, talking to me, tending me with gentle solicitude, was the very woman, I feared, who had drowned the child.

There were times--I remember one particularly--when she held out a bunch of fine hothouse grapes to me, that I could have cried out--"It is the hand of a murderess; take it away," but I restrained myself.
I declare that, during a whole fortnight, I watched her incessantly; I scrutinized every look, every gesture; I criticised every word, and in neither one nor the other did I find the least shadow of blame.

She seemed to me pure in heart, thought and word.

At times, when she read or sang to us, there was a light such as one fancies the angels wear.