"A boatman found it, and the bundle contained a little drowned child--a fair waxen babe, beautiful even though it had lain in the salt, bitter waters of the green sea all night. Now comes the horror, Mrs. Fleming. When the man, who saw the scene went after some years to visit the friend whom he loved so dearly, he recognized in that friend's wife the woman who threw the child into the sea!" Again came the sound that was like nothing human. "What was that man to do?" I asked. "He could not be silent; the friend who loved and trusted him must have been most basely deceived--he could not hide a murder; yet the woman was so lovely, so lovable; she was seemingly so good, so charitable, so devoted to her husband, that he was puzzled, tortured; at last he resolved upon telling her. I have told you." Then silence, deep and awful, fell over us; it lasted until I saw that I must break it. She lay motionless on the ground, her face buried in the grass. "What should you have done in that man's place, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked. Then she raised her face; it was whiter, more despairing, more ghastly than I had seen it on the pier. "I knew it must come," she wailed. "Oh, Heaven, how often have I dreaded this--I knew from the first." "Then it was you?" I said. "It was me," she replied. "I need not try to hide it any longer, why should I? Every leaf on every tree, every raindrop that has fallen, every wind that has whispered has told it aloud ever since. If I hide it from you someone else will start up and tell. If I deny it, then the very stones in the street will cry it out. Yes, it was me--wretched, miserable me--the most miserable, the most guilty woman alive--it was me." My heart went out to her in fullness of pity--poor, unhappy woman! sobbing her heart out; weeping, as surely no one ever wept before. I wished that Heaven had made anyone else her judge than me. Then she sat up facing me, and I wondered what the judge must think when the sentence of death passes his lips. I knew that this was the sentence of death for this woman. "You never knew what passed after, did you?" I asked. "No--not at all," was the half sullen reply--"not at all." "Did you never purchase a Brighton paper, or look into a London paper to see?" "No," she replied. "Then I will tell you," I said, and I told her all that had passed. How the people had stood round the little baby, and the men cursed the cruel hands that had drowned the little babe. "Did they curse my hands?" she asked, and I saw her looking at them in wonder. "Yes; the men said hard words, but the women were pitiful and kind; one kissed the little face, dried it, and kissed it with tears in her eyes. Was it your own child?" There was a long pause, a long silence, a terrible few minutes, and then she answered: "Yes, it was my child!" Her voice was full of despair; she folded her hands and laid them on her lap.