conjugal career, or the earliest weeks in the life of their
first-born, be the happiest and proudest period of their
existence. For myself I can only say that the same exaltation of
mind, the same rarefication of idea and invention, which
succeeded upon my wedding day came upon me now. As then, my
ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for a
story, and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy
was about six weeks old when the manuscript was finished, and one
evening, as we sat before a comfortable fire in our sitting-room,
with the curtains drawn, and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby
sleeping soundly in the adjoining chamber, I read the story to my
wife.

When I had finished, my wife arose and threw herself into my
arms. "I was never so proud of you," she said, her glad eyes
sparkling, "as I am at this moment. That is a wonderful story!
It is, indeed I am sure it is, just as good as `His Wife's
Deceased Sister.'"

As she spoke these words, a sudden and chilling sensation
crept over us both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and
happy glow engendered within me by this praise and appreciation
from one I loved, vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and
gazed upon each other with pallid faces. In the same moment the
terrible truth had flashed upon us both. This story WAS as
good as "His Wife's Deceased Sister"!

We stood silent. The exceptional lot of Barbel's super-
pointed pins seemed to pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision
rose before me of an impending fall and crash, in which our