I began to look jealously upon poor Fanny’s uniform cheerfulness—well may she laugh—well may she sing, urged the demon—what care has she for the future—_she_ is provided for—true, you are near death—what of that—wont it shower down gold upon _her_—ha—ha—ha! She will turn from your grave with a smile, and revel in the proceeds of—A Life Insurance! From that hour I grew suspicious of every thing my poor wife said or did—her every action was scanned, every word translated to meet my own bitter jealousy. I became moody, rude, fretful—nay, harsh to my angel Fanny, and if, when I saw her tears, and her cheek turn pale at my cruelty, my heart moved with pity, the demon with a hideous laugh would cry “_cockatrice_—she only weeps and wishes you were dead.” One day I came home with a violent headache and threw myself upon the sofa. Fanny stole to my side with a step so noiseless and gentle I heard her not, and kneeling down she parted the hair from my fevered brow, and kissed my closed eye-lids. “Dear Henry, can I do any thing for you?” she softly murmured. “You are sick—your hands are hot, and your cheek feverish—tell me what I can do for you, dearest?” I made her no answer—but I glared upon her with _such_ a look that she trembled and turned pale—then once more stooping over me until her golden ringlets touched my cheek, she said again— “Henry, let me send for a physician—indeed you must.” “Ha, wretch! traitress!” I cried, suddenly starting up and pushing her from me with violence—“you would have the work finished soon—eh! You would soon put me under ground if you could, woman!” “Henry! Henry!” cried Fanny, with a look which is fastened on my brain—and with a convulsive groan she sank fainting upon the floor. In a moment all my affection returned. I hung over her insensible form—I kissed her pale lips—I besought her to forgive me. I bathed her temples—I called her by every endearing name. At last she opened her eyes, and catching her to my breast I wept my contrition. I added falsehood to my infamy—attributing the words I had uttered to the effects of opium taken to relieve a raging tooth-ache. The dear girl believed me, and with a sweet angelic smile forgave, and blamed herself for being so easily disturbed. We passed the evening happily, and for several days my jealousy slumbered. But again the demon got possession of me, and again my infernal suspicions goaded me almost to madness. Why did I not go mad! See how the fiends mock me, and with their fleshless fingers point at me, crying—“You are mad _now_”—but no—no—I am not mad! It was a lovely day in October. I had walked out far from city haunts. The pure breath of heaven cooled my fevered brain—my pulse beat less wildly, until by degrees a sweet serenity crept over me. I thought of Fanny—of her love—of the patience and forbearance with which she had met my cruel treatment of her. My heart bled for her, and tears of pity bedewed my cheek.