talk while you are like this."

She beat her white hands together, and I could not still her cries; they
were all for "Lance!"--"her love, Lance!"




CHAPTER XI.


"You must listen to me," I said; "I want you to see how truly this is
the work of Providence, and not of mere chance."

I told her how I often had been attracted to the pier; I told her all
that was said by the crowd around; of the man who carried the little
dead child to the work-house; of the tiny little body that lay in its
white dress in the bare, large, desolate room, and of the flowers that
the kindly matron had covered it with.

I told her how I had taken compassion on the forlorn little creature,
had purchased its grave, and of the white stone with "Marah" upon it.

"Marah, found drowned." And then, poor soul--poor, hapless soul, she
clung to my hands and covered them with kisses and tears.

"Did you--did you do that?" she moaned. "How good you are, but you will
not tell him. I was mad when I did that, mad as women often are, with
sorrow, shame and despair. I will suffer anything if you will only
promise not to tell Lance."