are brutes enough--but I do not think any man would throw a little babe
into the water. When a woman is bad, she is bad, and there is nothing
vile enough for her."

I though of the beautiful and desperate face. Heaven grant that she
might have nothing to do with this! And yet--the black and gray shawl!

"Whereabouts was it?" I asked.

He pointed with his hand to the very spot where she had stood.

"Just there," he said. "It was there the little bundle was thrown, and
there, just below the line of the jetty, it was caught by the hooks."

The identical spot where she had stood. Oh, beautiful, despairing face,
what was hidden underneath your mask of stone?

"You should go on the pier, sir, and see for yourself," said the old
man. "The superintendent of the police is there now; but they will never
find out who did that. Women are deep when they are wicked, and the one
who did this was wicked enough."

There was a slight suggestion on the part of the little group as to the
morning being a dry one. We parted on very satisfactory terms.

I went on the pier, and under the wooden shelter where I had sat last
night I saw a group--the superintendent of the police with one of the
officers, the manager of the pier, the keepers of the different stalls,
a few strangers, and Jim, the boatman, who had found the little bundle
dripping wet. Oh, Heaven, the pathos of it! On the wooden seat lay the