The room was full of sunlight; it faced the west, and the sun was setting. For a few moments my eyes were dazzled; then as the golden haze cleared, I saw a tall figure at the other end of the room, a beautiful figure, dressed in a long robe of blue, with a crown of golden brown hair; when she turned suddenly to us, I saw that she carried some sprays of white hawthorn in her hand. At first my attention was concentrated on the golden hair, the blue dress, the white flowers; then slowly, as though following some irresistible magnetic attraction, my eyes were raised to her face, and remained fixed there. I have wondered a thousand times since how it was that no cry escaped my lips--how it was that none of the cold, sick horror that filled my whole heart and soul did not find vent in words. How was it? To this moment I cannot tell. Great Heaven! what did I see? In this beloved and worshiped wife--in this fair and queenly woman--in this tender and charitable lady, who was so good to the fallen and miserable--in this woman, idolized by the man I loved best upon earth, I saw the murderess--the woman who had dropped the little bundle over the railing into the sea. It was she as surely as heaven shone above us. I recognized the beautiful face, the light golden hair, the tall, graceful figure. The face was not white, set desperate now, but bright, with a soft, sweet radiance I have seen on the face of no other woman living. For an instant my whole heart was paralyzed with horror. I felt my blood grow cold and gather round my heart, leaving my face and hands cold. She came forward to greet me with the same graceful, undulating grace which had struck me before. For a moment I was back on the Chain Pier, with the wild waste of waters around me, and the rapid rush of the waves in my ear. Then a beautiful face was smiling into mine--a white hand, on which rich jewels shone, was held out to me, a voice sweeter than any music I had ever heard, said: "You are welcome to Dutton, Mr. Ford. My husband will be completely happy now." Great Heaven! how could this woman be a murderess--the beautiful face, the clear, limpid eyes--how could it be? No sweeter mouth ever smiled, and the light that lay on her face was the light of Heaven itself. How could it be? She seemed to wonder a little at my coldness, for she added: "I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you, and Lance has thought of nothing else during the last week." I wonder that I didn't cry out, "You are the woman who drowned the little child off the Chain Pier." It was only the sight of Lance's face that deterred me. I had some vague, indistinct notion of what those words would be to him. "What is the matter, John?" asked Lance, impatiently. "The sight of my wife's face seems to have struck you dumb." "It must be with admiration, then," I said, making a desperate effort to recover myself. "I could almost think I had seen Mrs. Fleming's face before."