I found Julia in bed. She complained of headache and fever. She

had already taken medicine--I sat beside her. I spoke to her in

the tenderest language. I felt, at the moment when I feared to lose

her for ever, that I could love nothing half so well. I spoke to

her with as much freedom as fondness; and, momently expecting her

to make the necessary revelation, I hung upon her slightest words,

and hung upon them only to be disappointed.

The dinner hour came. The meal was finished. I returned to the

chamber, and once more resumed my place beside her on the couch. I

strove to inspire her with confidence--to awaken her sensibilities--to

beguile her to the desired utterance, but in vain. Of course I

could give no hint whatsoever of the knowledge which I had obtained.

After that, her confession would have been no longer voluntary,

and could no longer have been credited.

Time sped--too rapidly as I thought. Though anxious for vengeance,

I loved her too fondly not to desire to delay the minutes in the

earnest expectation that she would speak at last. She did not. The

hour approached of my meeting with Edgerton; and then I felt that

Edgerton was not the only criminal.

Mrs. Porterfield just then brought in some warm tea and placed it

on the table at the bed head. After a few moments delay, she left

us alone together. The eyes of my wife were averted. The vial of

prussic acid stood on the same table with the tea. I rose from the

couch, interposed my person between it and the table--and, taking

up the poison, deliberately poured three drops into the beverage.

I never did anything more firmly. Yet I was not the less miserable,

because I was most firm. My nerve was that of the executioner who

carries out a just judgment. This done, I put the vial into my

pocket. Julia then spoke to me. I turned to her with eagerness. I

was prepared to cast the vessel of tea from the window. It was my

hope that she was about to speak, though late, the necessary truths.

But she only called to me to know if I had been to my office during

the morning.

"Not since nine o'clock," was my answer. "Why?"

"Nothing. But are you going to your office now, dear husband?"

"Not directly. I shall possibly be there in the course of the

afternoon. What do you wish? Why do you ask?"

"Oh, nothing," she replied; "but I will tell you to-morrow why I

ask."

"To-morrow!--tell me now, if it be anything of moment. Now! now

is the appointed time!" The serious language of Scripture, became

natural to me in the agonizing situation in which I stood.




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