But I waited for no more. With a horrible cry I sprung from the bed, and with one bound stood before her. I snatched the razor from her hand—I waved its shining blade in triumph.
“Wretch—murderess!” I cried.
I attempted to seize her—she eluded my grasp, and ran shrieking from the room. I rushed wildly after her, shouting madly down the stairs—through the hall. I saw her white garments as she sprang through the street-door. “On—on—after her—after her!” cried the demon.
But strong men seized me; they bound me with cords—they called me mad—they brought me here—they shut me up with maniacs; but I am not mad—no, no, no—not mad!
The demon, with a fiendish joy, whispers, “Fanny was an angel—Fanny was innocent—that I have killed her!”
Fanny! Fanny! Fanny—where are you? Come to me, my love! No, she will not come! the fiends are keeping her from me! Ah, I see them as they wind themselves around her delicate form—break from them, my angel—my wife, come to me! See! she too laughs and mocks my groans! Now—now I am, indeed, growing mad—mad!
MISS DIX, THE PHILANTHROPIST.
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BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.