I declare that, during a whole fortnight, I watched her incessantly; I
scrutinized every look, every gesture; I criticised every word, and in
neither one nor the other did I find the least shadow of blame. She
seemed to me pure in heart, thought and word. At times, when she read or
sang to us, there was a light such as one fancies the angels wear. Then
I found also what Lance said of her charity to the poor was perfectly
true--they worshipped her. No saint was a greater saint to them than the
woman whom I believed I had seen drown a little child.

It seemed as though she could hardly do enough for them; the minute she
heard that any one was sick or sorry she went to their aid. I have known
this beautiful woman, whose husband adored her, give up a ball or a
party to sit with some poor woman whose child was ill, or was ill
herself. And I must speak, too, of her devotion--to see the earnest,
tender piety on her beautiful face was marvelous.

"Look, John," Lance would whisper to me; "my wife looks like an angel."

I was obliged to own that she did. But what was the soul like that
animated the beautiful body?

When we were talking--and we spent many hours together in the garden--I
was struck with the beauty and nobility of her ideas. She took the right
side of everything; her wisdom was full of tenderness; she never once
gave utterance to a thought or sentence but that I was both pleased and
struck with it. But for this haunting suspicion I should have pronounced
her a perfect woman, for I could see no fault in her. I had been a
fortnight at Dutton Manor, and but for this it would have been a very
happy fortnight. Lance and I had fallen into old loving terms of