Oh! the pleasure of stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash one stroke of its thin, bright edge would make! 'At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand.

I grasped it firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife.

Her face was buried in her hands.

I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom.

She had been weeping; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek.
Her face was calm and placid; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile lighted up her pale features.