face to the lamp; it was white and still, the eyes closed, the mouth
shut rigidly.

But Mrs. Abercrombie was not unconscious. Every sense was awake.

"Edith! Edith!" her husband cried. His tones, anxious at first, now
betrayed alarm. A carriage went by at the moment. He called to the
driver, but was unheard or unheeded. Up and down the street, the air
of which was so filled with snow that he could see only a short
distance, he looked in vain for the form of a policeman or citizen.
He was alone in the street at midnight, blocks away from his
residence, a fierce storm raging in the air, the cold intense, and
his wife apparently insensible in his arms. If anything could free
his brain from its illusions, cause enough was here. He shouted
aloud for help, but there came no answer on the wild careering
winds. Another carriage went by, moving in ghostly silence, but his
call to the driver was unheeded, as before.

Feeling the chill of the intensely cold air going deeper and deeper,
and conscious of the helplessness of their situation unless she used
the strength that yet remained, Mrs. Abercrombie showed symptoms of
returning life and power of action. Perceiving this, the general
drew an arm around her for support and made a motion to go on again,
to which she responded by moving forward, but with slow and not very
steady steps. Soon, however, she walked more firmly, and began
pressing on with a haste that ill accorded with the apparent
condition out of which she had come only a few moments before.

The insane are often singularly quick in perception, and General
Abercrombie was for the time being as much insane as any patient of