If it were not true, she could deny it, although if she proved to be innocent, and I had made a mistake, I deserved what I should no doubt get; if she were guilty and owned it, she would have some warning at least. That seemed to me the best plan, if I could speak to her; break it to her in some way or other. A few more days passed. If any doubt was left in my mind, what happened one morning at breakfast would have satisfied me. Lance had taken up the paper. I was reading some letters, and Mrs. Fleming making tea. Lance looked suddenly from his paper. "I used to think drink was the greatest curse in England," he said. "Have you changed your opinion?" I asked. "I have. I think now the crying sin of the country is child-murder." As he uttered the words his wife was just in the act of pouring some cream into my cup; it did not surprise me that the pretty silver jug and the cream all fell together. Lance laughed aloud. "Why, Frances," he cried; "I have never seen you do such a clumsy thing before." She was deadly pale, her hand shaking. "I have frightened myself," she said, "and no wonder with such a noise." A servant came, who made everything right. Then Lance continued, "You interrupted me, Frances. I was just saying that child-murder is one of the greatest blots on the civilization of the present day." "It is such a horrible thing to speak of," she said, feebly. "It wants some speaking about," said Lance. "I never take up a paper without reading one or two cases. I wonder that the Government does not take it up and issue some decree or other. It is a blot on the face of the land." "I do not suppose that any decree of Government would change it," I said; "the evil lies too deeply for that; the law should be made equal; as it is, the whole blame, shame and punishment fall on the woman, while the man goes free; there will be no change for the better while that is the case. I have not patience to think of the irregularity of the law." "You are right, John," said my old friend. "Still, cruelty in a woman is so horrible, and the woman must be as cruel as a demon who deserts or slays her own child. If I had my own way, I would hang every one who does it; there would soon be an end of it then." There was a low startled cry, and the paper fell to the ground. Mrs. Fleming rose from her chair with a ghastly face. "Frances!" cried her husband, "what is the matter?" "You will talk of such horrible things," she replied, vehemently, "and you know that I cannot bear them." "Sweetheart," he whispered, as he kissed her, "I will be more careful. I know a sensitive heart like yours cannot bear the knowledge of such things. You must forgive me, Frances, but to me there is something far more loathing in the woman who kills a child than in the woman who slays a man. Do not look so pale and grieved, my darling! John, we must be more careful what we say." "I must beg you to remember that you began the subject, Lance."