Once she had a sensation of being cut with some sharp instrument. Then she struck; the blow told, and her antagonist fell heavily; the fall was succeeded by a short shriek in a woman’s voice. Bessie did not stop to wonder that any one engaged in an attempt at assassination should utter an outcry which would almost necessarily insure discovery and seizure. The shock of the sound seemed to restore her own powers of speech, and she burst into a succession of loud screams, calling on her grandfather for help. In the same moment the hope which abides in light fell under her hand. Reeling against her dressing-table, her fingers touched a box of waxen matches, and she quickly drew one of them against the wood, sending a faint glimmer through the chamber. She was not horror-stricken, she did not grasp a comprehension of the true nature of the scene; she simply stared in trembling wonder when she recognized Mrs. Lauson. “You there, grandmother!” gasped Bessie. “What has happened?” Mrs. Lauson, attired in an old morning-gown, was sitting on the floor, partially supported by one hand, while the other was moving about as if in search of some object. The object was a carving-knife; she saw it, clutched it, and rose to her feet; then for the first time she looked at Bessie. “What do you lie awake and pray for?” she demanded, in a furious mutter. “You lie awake and pray every night. I’ve listened in the hall time and again, and heard you. I won’t have it. I’ll give you just three minutes to get to sleep.” Bessie did not think; it did not occur to her, at least not in any clear manner, that this was lunacy; she instinctively sprang behind a large chair and uttered another scream. “I say, will you go to sleep?” insisted Mrs. Lauson, advancing and raising her knife. Just in the moment of need there were steps in the hall; the still vigorous and courageous old Squire appeared upon the scene; after a violent struggle the maniac was disarmed and bound. She lay upon Bessie’s bed, staring at her husband with bloodshot, watery eyes, and seemingly unconscious of anything but a sense of ill-treatment. The girl, meanwhile, had discovered a slight gash on her left arm, and had shown it to the Squire. “Sallie,” demanded the cold-blooded old man, “what have you been trying to knife Bessie for?” “Because she lay awake and prayed,” was the ready and firm response of downright mania. “Look here, Sallie, what did you kill Mercy for?” continued the Squire, without changing a muscle of his countenance. “Because she sat up and prayed,” responded Mrs. Lauson. “She sat up in the garden and prayed against me. Ever so many people sit up and lie awake to pray against me. I won’t have it.” “Ah!” said the old man. “Do you hear that, Bessie? Remember it, so as to say it upon your oath.” After a second or two he added, with something like a twinkle of his characteristic humor in his hard gray eyes, “So I saved my life by not praying!”