"You are only jesting," she said.

It was a pretty sight to see her go into those poor, little, dirty
houses. There was no pride, no patronage, no condescension--she was
simply sweetly natural; she listened to their complaints, gave them
comfort and relieved their wants. As I watched her I could not help
thinking to myself that if I were a fashionable or titled lady, this
would be my favorite relaxation--visiting and relieving the poor. I
never saw so much happiness purchased by a few pounds. We came to a
little cottage that stood by itself in a garden.

"Are you growing tired?" she asked of her husband.

"I never tire with you," he replied.

"And you, Mr. Ford?" she said.

She never overlooked or forgot me, but studied my comfort on every
occasion. I could have told her that I was watching what was to me a
perfect problem--the kindly, gentle, pitying deeds of a woman, who had,
I believed, murdered her own child.

"I am not tired, Mrs. Fleming, I am interested," I said.

The little cottage which stood in the midst of a wild patch of garden
was inhabited by a day-laborer. He was away at work; his wife sat at
home nursing a little babe, a small, fair, tiny child, evidently not
more than three weeks old, dying, too, if one could judge from the face.

She bent over it--the beautiful, graceful woman who was Lance's wife.