not reflected in my own face, "when, after the longest waiting I ever had at his door, he slowly came across the room and opened it, showing me a face as white as a sheet, and a hand that trembled so that he dropped the card I gave him and had to pick it up. Had there been a child there----" "But there wasn't!" I interrupted, shocked and forced to defend him in spite of myself. "No, nor anybody else. For when he went down-stairs, I looked in and there was no one there, and nothing uncommon about the room, except that I thought his bookcase looked as if it had been moved. And it had; for next day when I swept this room--it did not need sweeping, but one can't wait for ever to satisfy their curiosity--I just looked behind that case, and what do you think I found? A strap--a regular leather strap--just such as----" "Good God!" I interrupted; "you do not think he had been using it when you went to the door?" "I do," she said. "I think he had a fit of something like insanity upon him, and had been swinging that strap----Well, I will not say against what, for I do not know, but might it not have been against the fiends and goblins with which crazy people sometimes imagine they are surrounded?" "Possibly," I acquiesced, though my tone could not have been one of any strong conviction. "Insane persons sometimes do strange things," she continued; "and that he did not show himself violent before folks is no sign he did not let himself out sometimes when he was alone. The very fact that he restrained himself when he went into the pulpit and visited among his friends, may have made him wilder when he got all by himself. I am sure I remember having heard of a case where a man lived for ten years in a town without a single neighbor suspecting him of insanity; yet his wife suffered constantly from his freaks, and finally fell a victim to his violence." "But Mr. Barrows was such a brilliant man," I objected. "His sermons up to the last were models of eloquence." "Oh, he could preach," she assented. Seeing that she was not to be moved in her convictions, I ventured upon a few questions. "Have you ever thought," I asked, "what it was that created such a change in him? You say you noticed it for a month before his death; could any thing have happened to disturb him at that time?" "Not that I know of," she answered, with great readiness. "I was away for a week in August, and it was when I first came back that I observed how different he was from what he had been before. I thought at first it was the hot weather, but heat don't make one restless and unfit to sit quiet in one's chair. Nor does it drive a man to work as if the very evil one was in him, keeping the light burning sometimes till two in the morning, while he wrote and walked, and walked and wrote, till I thought my head would burst with sympathy for him." "He was finishing a book, was he not? I think I have heard he left a completed manuscript behind him?"