There was a low startled cry, and the paper fell to the ground. Mrs.
Fleming rose from her chair with a ghastly face.

"Frances!" cried her husband, "what is the matter?"

"You will talk of such horrible things," she replied, vehemently, "and
you know that I cannot bear them."

"Sweetheart," he whispered, as he kissed her, "I will be more careful. I
know a sensitive heart like yours cannot bear the knowledge of such
things. You must forgive me, Frances, but to me there is something far
more loathing in the woman who kills a child than in the woman who slays
a man. Do not look so pale and grieved, my darling! John, we must be
more careful what we say."

"I must beg you to remember that you began the subject, Lance."

"I am ashamed of making such a fuss," she continued, "but there are some
subjects too horrible even to dwell upon or speak of, and that is one. I
am going into the garden, Lance; perhaps you and Mr. Ford would like
your cigars there? I am going to prune a favorite rose tree that is
growing wild."

"Do you understand pruning, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.

"Such small things as rose trees," she said.

"We will follow you, Frances," said her husband. "My case is empty; I
must get some more cigars."