little bundle, so white, so fair, like a small, pale rose-bud, and by
it, in a wet heap, lay the black and gray shawl. I knew it in one
moment; there was not another word to be said; that was the same shawl I
had seen in the woman's hands when she dropped the little bundle into
the sea--the self-same. I had seen it plainly by the bright, fitful
gleam of the moon. The superintendent said something to me, and I went
forward to look at the little child--so small, so fair, so tender--how
could any woman, with a woman's heart, drop that warm, soft little
nursling into the cold, deep sea? It was a woman who killed Joel--a
woman who slew Holofernes--but the woman who drowned this little, tiny
child was more cruel by far than they.

"What a sweet little face!" said the superintendent; "it looks just as
though it were made of wax."

I bent forward. Ah! if I had doubted before, I could doubt no longer.
The little face, even in its waxen pallor, was like the beautiful one I
had seen in its white despair last night. Just the same cluster of hair,
the same beautiful mouth and molded chin. Mother and child, I knew and
felt sure. The little white garments were dripping, and some kind,
motherly woman in the crowd came forward and dried the little face.

"Poor little thing!" she said; "how I should like to take those wet
things off, and make it warm by a good fire!"

"It will never be warm again in this world," said one of the boatmen.
"There is but little chance when a child has lain all night in the sea."

"All night in the sea!" said the pitiful woman; "and my children lay so
warm and comfortable in their little soft beds. All night in the sea!