is what occasions me such grief; I dare not tell him what vexes
me; I once hinted at it, and I thought he would have gone mad. You
wonder why I look so pale and thin; how can it be otherwise, when I
never get a sound night's rest?"

"What keeps you awake?" exclaimed both women in a breath.

"My husband! He does nothing but rave all night in his sleep about some
person he murdered years ago."

The women exchanged significant glances.

"Oh, if you could but hear his dreadful cries--the piteous moans he
makes--the frantic prayers he puts up to God to forgive him for his
great crime, and take him out of the fires of hell, it would make your
hair stand on end: it makes me shiver and tremble all over with fear.
And then to see, by the dim light of the rush candle, (for he never
sleeps in the dark,) the big drops of sweat that stand upon his brow and
trickle down his ghastly face; to hear him grind and gnash his teeth in
despair, and howl in a wild sort of agony, as he strikes at the walls
with his clenched fists; it would make you pray, Mrs. Martin, as I do,
for the light of day. Yes, yes, it is killing me--I know it is: it is
horrible to live in constant dread of the coming night--to shrink in
terror from the husband in whose bosom you should rest in peace."

"Doth this happen often?" asked Mrs. Martin.

"Every night for the last two months; ever since you came to live near
us. He used always to be afraid of the dark, and sometimes made a noise
in his sleep, but he never acted as he does now. Once I asked him what
he was dreaming about, and why he always fancied that he had murdered
some one, when asleep. He flew at me like a maniac, and swore that he
would throttle me if he ever heard me ask such foolish questions again;
that people could not commit murder in their sleep--that they must be
wide awake to shed blood."

"Ay, ay," said the old woman with a malignant smile, "doubtless he
knows. Does he ever mention the name of the person he murdered, in his
sleep?"

"Constantly. Did you ever, Mrs. Martin, hear of a person of the name of
Carlos?"

But the old woman did not answer. A change had passed over her face, as
with a cry of triumph she sprang from her seat and clapped her hands in
an ecstasy of joy--it might rather be termed, of gratified revenge. "Ay!
'tis out at last! 'tis out at last! My God, I thank thee! I thank thee!
Yes, yes, 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord!' My Bill! my
brave Bill! and