“And Isabel then was innocent. Aye! it had driven her mad. Oh! I could have crept on my hands and knees to her feet, for a whole life-time; if by so doing I could only have won from her forgiveness, for suspecting for a single moment, her angel purity. But it was not so to be. It was my fitting punishment. In the inscrutable designs of that Providence, before whose bar I shall so soon appear, it was decreed that I should never more see Isabel in the possession of her reason. She died. I had only time to hurry from that strange recital to behold her last moments. Never, never shall I forget that sight. “She was evidently in the last stage of her malady when I entered the chamber where she lay; and as she turned her wild, and wasted, but still beautiful countenance toward me as the door opened, I burst into a flood of tears, and could scarcely stagger to a seat at her bedside. I suffered more—will you believe it?—in that moment than I had ever done before. Our first meeting; our early love; our auspicious union; our days of after felicity; that long to be remembered night of our separation; and all the hideous succession of ensuing events whirled through my brain as if a wild, shadowy phantasmagoria was revolving, with the swiftness of thought, around me. But more than all my injustice toward her smote me to the heart. Could I look upon that emaciated face, in every line of which was stamped sufferings the most extreme, and not feel its silent though unconscious reproaches? I bent over and kissed her cheek. As I did so a hot tear-drop fell upon her face. “‘Who is it weeps?’ faintly said my dying wife, looking vacantly into my face, ‘ah! I know you not. You are not him. When will he come, when will he come?’ she continued, in a plaintive tone, drawing tears from every eye. She was dreaming still that she awaited my return at our far-off-home. Thank heaven! all else was forgot. “At this moment one of the physicians entered the room. Noiseless as he was, her quick ear detected his footstep. She turned quickly around: a look of disappointment stole over her face. She shook her head mournfully. “‘Why don’t he come?’ she murmured, ‘ah! he has forgotten Isabel. Well,’ she continued, in a tone that almost broke my heart, ‘he may desert me, but never can I desert him.’ “‘Isabel—Isabel,’ I ejaculated, unable longer to contain myself, ‘for the love of heaven speak not so. Isabel, dear Isabel, do you know me? Oh! you do. Say, only say you do: one word. Oh! my God, she will never awake to reason.’ “‘Did you talk of Isabel?’ she said, looking inquiringly up into my face, and for an instant I fancied the light of intellect shone across those pale, wan features. But alas! if so, it faded like it came. In another moment her eyes assumed their former vacant, yet sorrowful and imploring expression, and turning away she began to sing a snatch of an old song I had taught her in the days of our courtship.