“Is that your baby?” the woman almost whispered, as she caught the gleam of Penny’s wedding ring.  Then she cried wrathfully: 

“What!  Has he dared to marry you?  Oh, the treacherous villain!  Surely you’re not Arthur Spence’s wife!”

In spite of the fear that fell upon her, Penny grew at once strangely calm.  This must be some disreputable relative of her husband’s—­though she had thought him alone in the world.  He was an orphan.  This could not be Arthur’s mother!  He could have nothing in common with a woman so low as this!  It was some bold, bad creature trying to frighten her.  Thus spoke her trembling heart, but her voice was quiet and restrained as she said in reply: 

“I do not see how it affects you that Arthur Spence is my husband, and this is our child.”

The simple dignity with which she spoke and her apparent calmness seemed to soften the woman and still her anger somewhat.  Drawing nearer, she laid her hand with something of gentleness upon Penny’s arm, and tears started to her eyes as she exclaimed: 

“My dear, the man’s a scoundrel!  You are no wife of his.  He married me when he was a stripling of eighteen, and he cast me off in less than a year.  He ruined me, and now he’s ruined you—­poor dear!”

“It’s false, it’s false!” cried Penny with fierce eyes and glowing color.  “You certainly know nothing of my husband.  You’ll never turn me against him with your wicked lies!  He’s good and true—­I’m sure of it, say what you like!”

“I only wish you were right, my dear,” replied the other, evidently softened by Penny’s unshaken fidelity.  “But God knows I’m speaking the truth; for here is the proof.”

She drew from her pocket a folded paper and held it open before Penny’s eyes.

It was a marriage certificate.  It described Arthur Spence as wedded to Clara Millar, and the date was twelve years ago.  The shock, though intense, was merely momentary.  So strong was Penny’s trust in her husband that not even this manifest evidence, as it seemed, could shake it.  Another man might bear the same name—­Arthur might have some disreputable cousin or other relative.  She would believe nothing against the uprightness of her Arthur.

“I do not believe,” she said firmly, looking steadfastly at the other woman, “that my husband could wrong any woman.”

“I declare to you before God,” cried the stranger excitedly, “that Sergeant Arthur Spence, whom you call your husband, married me on the day set down here!” And she rapped with one hand on the paper she held in the other.  “But I have a stronger proof.  Read that!”

She had taken an envelope from her pocket as she spoke, and drawing from it a paper she held it before Penny.

With shaking hands the poor little wife took it.  It was a letter—­the handwriting familiar to her.  She turned to the signature; it was her husband’s own.