From that day I saw poor Fanny’s heart was broken. She breathed no complaint—she uttered no reproach, not even from those languid eyes which ever beamed on me with so much tenderness—wretch, infamous wretch that I was; but I saw the fatal blow was given. And I also saw, with a fiendish joy, that she was afraid of me—yes, _afraid_—ha! ha! She thought me mad—_me_! How I reveled in this idea; what gambols I held with my demon, in my joy that I could affright her timid soul—how I gloried in it! Her monomany was such a farce, to believe _me_ mad! I knew she would die sooner than complain of my treatment—and the demon shouted, “Take your revenge now for the happiness she expects from your death; give ten thousand deathly stabs to her heart by your unkindness, for the _ten thousand dollars_ she will finger! Leave her no peace—waste her to a skeleton, and then—_let her enjoy the Life Insurance—ha! ha!_” Sometimes I resolved I would live until the day the policy expired, and then die—_cheat her at last_. There were seasons, however, when I threw off the mask of the madman—for, remember, I was not mad—when I would take my Fanny to my arms with love and kindness, when I would entreat her to forgive me, while with her true woman’s heart she would bless me and pardon my guilt toward her. On the first of February the policy on my life would expire. For some weeks I had been uniformly kind to my poor wife. The demon had departed for a season, but you may be sure he was not far off. As the first of the month drew near she became more cheerful—her step was lighter, and a smile, as of old, played around her sweet mouth. It was the afternoon of the 31st of January that I drew Fanny to my bosom as I reclined upon the sofa, and carelessly playing with her beautiful ringlets as I spoke, said, “Do you know, dearest Fanny, the policy on my life expires to-morrow, and yet you see here I am hale and hearty—what a pity!” “Thank God, my dear Henry, that you are so!” she replied, tenderly embracing me, “thank God!” and tears glistened on her long curling lashes. “Shall I renew it, Fanny?” I asked smiling in her face. “Oh no, Henry, not for worlds—if you love me, don’t renew it!” she cried, slipping from my arms upon her knees, and pressing my head to her bosom. “Oh, my dear Henry, you know not the agony I have suffered from that simple act of yours, done in all love and kindness to me—no, Henry, don’t renew it!” she added, while a shudder passed over her. “Ah,” whispered the demon, tugging at my heart-strings till they snapped, “is not she a good actress—how well she feigns; she weeps, don’t she—but it is because you are not in the church-yard!” For the first time I paid no heed to the demon, but kissing my darling Fanny, and promising I would comply with her wishes, I withdrew to my office. That evening—little did I think it was to be my last with my beloved—my angel wife—my _last—last—last_!