Constance Kent has confessed, but not anything that we did
not know before, except that she had secreted the razor some days beforehand in contemplation of the deed,—that she rose in the middle of the night and carried the child in the blanket through the drawing-room window without awakening it to the place where she murdered it,—that she washed out the one or two drops of blood from her night-dress the same night, but finding two days later that the stain was still visible when it was held up to - the light, she withdrew it from the clothes-basket, and moving it from place to place at length burnt it. She fully intended to con- fess, she says, if any one else, the nurse, for instance, had been found guilty. The burden of suspicion,—perhaps worse to bear,—she did not, however, consider. She first began to be troubled with her sin when preparing for communion after con- firmation. She repeats that no unkindness of her stepmother led to the crime, but says that everything said at all depreciatory of the first family was treasured up by her to revenge.
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