Like an angel she listened to me. She soothed my grief, and hushed my self-reproach by her embraces. Never had I loved her so well—never had she appeared to me in a light so beautiful. Thus the sharpest wound was healed—and the loss of wealth for a time scarce heeded. The necessity of doing something for our support pressed upon me, and my angel wife encouraged my efforts. I sought employment from those against whom wealth had barred my doors, and whom in my exaltation I scarce deigned to acknowledge—but now my pride was gone, and for Fanny’s sake I sought from them to earn my daily bread. I obtained a lucrative business, and for a time was happy, for I was still enabled to place my dearest Fanny above want—even to surround her with some few of the luxuries with which her young life had been crowned. But soon a new fear begat itself. I found my health rapidly declining. The life of pleasure I had led, and the shock lately sustained by my reverse of fortune, had materially injured a constitution naturally nervous and weak. What was to become of my poor Fanny in the event of my death! Upon this one thought I brooded despondingly. My exertions even for our present support were paralyzed—my health suffered more and more—my form wasted, and my countenance became so changed that even my best friends scarce recognized me. Shall I go on! Shall I call up the monster-fiend that awoke me from my misery, only to plunge me by degrees into horrors deeper than the pit of hell! Ay, gibe and grin at me, fiend! I defy you now—you have accomplished your worst—there is not a deed more damnable left for me to do! ha! ha! you would drive me mad—you say I _am_—but, fiend, I am not mad! One morning a friend came into my office. With my elbows resting on my desk, and my hands supporting my aching temples, I sat brooding over the one dark thought, which, like an incubus, pressed upon my brain. Townsend was an old acquaintance—one whom I loved and trusted—but I am now convinced he was no other than the Devil, who had come to tempt me here—_here_ amid the rattling of chains and shrieks of wo! “Cheer up, Denton—cheer up, my man—what ails you?” he cried, gaily slapping me on the back. “Townsend, I am miserable,” I replied. “My wife—my poor wife—my angel Fanny, what is to become of her? Were she less kind—less sympathizingly affectionate, I might perhaps be less sensitive for the future. Poor girl! I feel I shall not live long, and then—ah, Townsend, must her delicate frame bear fatigue—her tender hands be forced to labor!” “Tut—tut, man—all nonsense, I tell you,” answered my _friend_. “If you have a mind to die, so be it—but I have come in on purpose to suggest to you a means by which you can secure to Mrs. Denton not only a competence but comparative wealth.” “How! how!” I exclaimed, eagerly interrupting him and starting to my feet—“only tell me, and I will forever bless you!”