“Why, my dear fellow, the simplest thing in the world—you have only to get your life insured!” cried the tempter. “How—my life insured!” I echoed. “To be sure—come go with me to some responsible office, and insure your life for three, five, or ten thousand dollars, as you please. You will only have to pay a small premium—a mere trifle in comparison, and then, my dear fellow, you may welcome death as you would a _douche_ in August, sure that her you love will be benefited by your demise.” “My dear friend,” said I, warmly embracing him, “how can I sufficiently thank you for your suggestion—come—why my heart already feels lightened of half its load—don’t let us lose a moment’s time—let me secure to my dear Fanny an independence, and then I may die in peace!” “I am ready,” replied Townsend with a gay laugh. _Such a laugh!_ It yet rings in my ear—it pierces my brain—it echoes from corner to corner of this dismal cell—it rattles like a serpent through the straw on which my worn body rests—but—it cannot drive me mad! In less than an hour the business was accomplished, and the policy in my hands, by which, in the event of my death before the expiration of the year, I secured to my dear wife the sum of ten thousand dollars—and feeling happier than I had done for months, I sought my home. My charming Fanny met me with a sweet kiss, and her watchful eyes soon read in mine that joy I was eager to speak. “Ah, my dearest Henry,” she said, caressing me, “I see you have good news for me—what is it has brought back the long banished smiles to your dear face?” “Wait until we are alone, my dearest,” I answered, for our _one_ servant was then placing dinner on the table, “and I will tell you why it is that I am so happy.” No sooner therefore was our meal ended and the servant retired than drawing Fanny on my knee, and tenderly embracing her, I related the events of the morning. But instead of sharing my happiness, as I imagined she would, she grew paler and paler as I proceeded, and finally throwing her arms around my neck she burst into a passionate flood of tears. “Harry, how cruel to talk to me of riches which can only be mine through your death! Henry—Henry, do you think so meanly of me—would not every dollar speak to my soul as from the grave of all I hold dear. I will die with you, my husband—but I beseech of you—I pray you by all our love to give up that hateful policy—no good will result from it!” Was her angel voice prophetic! Would to God I had obeyed her—then these chains would not confine me—but I am not mad—no—not mad!