"Happened! why that cussed Miss Verjuice is paying Mr. Scatterly's debts."
"Well?"
"Well, I presented my promissory note—he handed it to her—and—and—O murder!—I've been kissing the old woman!"
Phebe threw her arms about his neck, and pressed her lips to his, and Thomas Mayflower then and there solemnly promised that he would nevermore have any thing to do with Kisses on Demand!
THE RIFLE SHOT.
A MADMAN'S CONFESSION.
It is midnight. The stealthy step of the restless maniac is no longer heard in the long, cheerless corridors; the ravings of the incurable cannot penetrate the deep walls of the cells in which their despair is immured; even the guardians of the establishment are asleep. Without, what silence! The branches of the immemorial trees hang pendulous and motionless; the last railway train, with its monster eyes of light, has thundered by. The neighboring city seems like one vast mausoleum, over which the silent stars are keeping watch and ward, and weeping silvery dew like angels' tears. Only crime and despair are sleepless.
To my task. They allow me a lamp. They are not afraid that the madman will fire his living tomb and perish in the ruins. Wise men of science! Cunning readers of the human heart, your decrees are infallible. I am mad. But perhaps some eager individual whose eyes shall rest upon these pages will pronounce a different sentence; perhaps he may know how to distinguish crime from madness.