Ay, howl, ye mocking fiends! gibe and chatter, and clap your hands with hellish joy! shriek to my burning brain, “_It was the last!_” What care I—you cannot drive me mad! That evening we were so happy—we talked of the future, we reared temples of happiness wherein our days were to be spent—but the demon set his foot upon them, and lo, they were dashed to pieces, and in an instant I was transformed from the tender, loving husband to the maniac—but I was not mad. I turned upon my wife with the demon’s eyes. She grew suddenly pale. She went to the side-board and poured out a glass of wine; she brought it to me and said timidly, “Will you drink this, Henry?” I dashed it from her hand—I struck her a blow! Heavens! why was not my arm paralyzed! and cried in a voice of fury, “Wretch! murderess!—would you poison me!” Fanny stood for a moment transfixed with wo unutterable—it was too deep for tears; then taking the lamp, she slowly, slowly left the room, casting back upon me a look so full of grief—of pity. In a few moments I softly followed her up stairs—I gently pushed open the door of our sleeping chamber. She did not hear my approach. She was kneeling by the bedside, her white hands uplifted in prayer. Yes, she was praying—praying God for _me_—praying Him to restore my _reason_, to remove the darkness from my mind! _My reason!_—ha—ha—how I chuckled as I listened. I threw myself on the bed without speaking, and was soon asleep, or feigning to be so—narrowly watching, meanwhile, every motion of Fanny, for the demon whispered, _she meant to kill me to save the Life Insurance!_ She did not undress, but sat for a while in a large easy chair. Sometimes she wept, sometimes she seemed engaged in prayer. “_Kill—kill—kill!_” I muttered, as if in sleep. She started—her eye-balls dilated with terror. She rose quickly from her seat, as if to fly; but the next moment she softly approached the bed, her countenance changing from terror to pity. “My poor, poor Henry—God help thee!” she murmured. She then cautiously stepped across the room and carefully examined the windows, to see if they were fastened. She then took down my pistols. I knew they were not loaded; she, too, appeared to recollect it, and gently replaced them. With a timid step she next approached the bureau and opened my dressing-case, glancing uneasily at the bed as she did so. Good heavens! what was she about to do! Ah, I knew—though I cunningly closed my eyes and lay still—still—she could not make me believe she was only anxious to put all dangerous weapons from the power of a _madman_—no—no, I knew better! _She drew forth a razor_—and then softly, softly, softly, she turned from the bureau and— But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I sprung from the bed, and with one bound stood before her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I waved its shining blade in triumph. “Wretch—murderess!” I cried.