went home together. Mrs. Fleming did not say much, but she kept up
better than I thought she could have done. I heard her that same evening
express a wish to be driven to Vale Royal on the day following; a young
girl, whom she had been instrumental in saving from ruin, had been
suddenly taken ill, and wanted to see her.

"My darling," Lance said, "you do not seem to me strong enough. Let me
persuade you to rest tomorrow."

"I should like to see Rose Winter again before--before I"--then she
stopped abruptly.

"Before you--what, Frances?" he asked.

"I mean," she said, "that I should like to see Rose before she grows
worse."

"I think you ought to rest, but you shall do as you like, Frances; you
always do. I will drive you over myself."

I saw them start on the following morning, and then I tried to think
over in solitude what it would be best to do. Her story certainly
altered facts very considerably. She was not a murderess, as I had
believed her to be. If the death of the little hapless child was
attributable to an overdose of the cordial, she had certainly not given
it purposely. Could I judge her?

Yet, an honest, loyal man like Lance ought not to be so cruelly
deceived. I felt sure myself that if she spoke to him--if she told him
her story with the same pathos with which she had told it to me, he