work, and remain shut up in my residence. I grew rapidly worse, and soon could not walk, across the floor without support, or remain long in a recumbent position without sinking into a sort of trance, from which no effort could awaken me. When conscious, I was painfully sensitive to the slightest sound; the closing of a door, a footfall on the floor, the soft rustle of a silken dress, or the rumble of a carriage in the distant street, would strike on my nerves like a blow on an anvil, and give me exquisite torture.
I had several physicians, but, though they all agreed upon the cause, none could suggest a cure for my malady.
At last I gave up hope, and set about "putting my house in order," for the silent journey along the "dark valley." I made my will, carefully looked over my life insurance papers, and dictated some directions to my attorney, about the settlement of my affairs. The work occupied nearly the whole of one day, and when it was done, it was early candle-light. Then, as my attorney rose to leave me, I said to him, "Be good enough to call up my wife and children."
"No, no!" he answered; "not now; you are too weak; wait until morning."
"No; I would see them now. I am stronger and better than I have been for a fortnight. This settlement has relieved my mind and given me new vigor."
Then they came—my little boy of five, my little girl of ten, and my wife, who is their mother. They gathered near me on the sofa—the little boy upon my knee, the little girl by my side, and my wife at my feet, holding my hand and looking up cheerfully in my face, though in her heart she was weeping, most sadly.
It was a mild, autumnal night—one of the first of the Indian Summer. Not a breath stirred the great trees in the court-yard, and the soft air from my garden came in at the window, filling the whole room with fragrance. Gradually the sweet influences of the night stole over my senses, and, for the first time in many months, my pulses beat in perfect unison with nature. I was at rest in a strange joy; and though but a moment before I had looked calmly at death, I now clung to life with a strange and desperate tenacity. "I will not die," I thought to myself. "I will not die—my life half finished, and the joys of this beautiful world, as yet, almost untasted."
"You shall not die," said a soft voice, borne inwardly into my ear. "You shall not die, for I will save you!"
"Oh! bless you for those words; but can you, will you, save me?"
"I can—I will. Though the evil prevail for a time, the good at last shall triumph."
"What do you mean—who are you?"
