"Madame, awake, it will be remembered, had come to the conclusion to settle Tom's coffee—and hash, at the same time, with a dose or two of ratsbane, or some similar delicate condiment; and now, in her dream, she thought all her plans were so well and surely made as to defy detection, and laugh outright at failure.

"In California there is a small but very troublesome rodent known to Science as 'Pseudo-stoma bursarius,' and to the vulgar world as 'gopher'—a sort of burrowing rat, nearly as mischievous and quite as wicked, for the little wretches have a settled and special penchant for boring holes in the ground, particularly in the vicinity of fruit trees. My friend, Mr. Rumford, who has a very fine orchard in Fruit Vale, Contra Costa, just across the bay from Santa Blarneeo, recently assured me that the rascals make it a point to destroy young trees, not only without compunction, but even without saying, 'By your leave.' Now it so happened that Clark's place was overstocked with the pestilent animals alluded to, and the proprietors had, time and again, threatened the whole race with extermination, by means of arsenic, phosphor-paste, or some other effective poison, but had never carried the resolution into practice. This fact was seized on by Mrs. Clark, as a capital point d'appui. Accordingly, with a dull hand-saw, the lady hacked a few dozen of the very choicest young trees, in such a way as to make them look like unmistakable gopher-work, thus subjecting the brutes to charges whereof they were as innocent as two unborn babes. Gophers and the Devil have to answer for a great deal that properly belong to other parties. Her act was a grand stroke of policy. She meant that Tom should voluntarily get the poison, which she intended he—not the gophers—should take at the very earliest possible opportunity. She didn't mean to purchase arsenic—oh, no, she knew too much for that! The ravage was speedily discovered by Clark. He raved, stamped his foot in his wrath, turned round on his heel, pulled his cap over his eyes, ejaculated, 'Dod dern 'em!' started for the city, and that very night returned, bearer of six bits' worth of the strongest and deadliest kind of poison—quite as deadly, almost as strong, as that which stupid fools drink in corner stores at six cents a glass.

"That night about half the poison was mixed and set. Twelve hours thereafter there was great tribulation and mourning in Gopherdom; for scores of the little gentry ate of it, liked the flavor, tried a little more—got thirsty—they drank freely (most fools do!), felt uncomfortable, got angry, swelled—with indignation and poisoned meal! and not a few of them immediately (to quote Mr. Clark), 'failed in business; that is to say, they burst—burst all to thunder! Alas, poor rodents!

"Next morning Tom's coffee was particularly good. Betsey fairly surpassed herself, in fact she came it rather too strong. About ten o'clock he felt thirsty, and inclined toward cold water; for the weather was hot, and so were his 'coppers,' to quote the Ancient Mariner. He would have taken much water, only that Betsey dissuaded him, and said: 'It was just like him, to go and get sick by drinking ever so much cold water! Why didn't he take switchel, or, what was much better, cold coffee, with plenty of milk in it—and sugar, of course;' and so he (Tom) tried her prescription, liked it, took a little more, and that night followed the Gophers!

"Three days afterwards a kindly neighbor handed Mrs. Clark a fresh copy of the 'Santa Blarneeo Looking Glass,' wherein she read, with tearful eyes, the following true and veracious account of

"'A MOST DISTRESSING AND FATAL SUICIDE!

"'We regret to announce the fearful suicide, while laboring under a fit of temporary insanity, caused by the bite of a gopher, of Mr. Thomas W. Clark. It appears, that in order to destroy the vermin, he purchased some arsenic, gave some to the animals, got bitten by them, ran stark mad in consequence, and then swallowed the balance (about a pound) himself. His unfortunate wife now lies at the point of death, by reason of the dreadful shock. She is utterly distracted by the distressing and heart-rending event, which is all the more poignant from the fact, that probably no married pair that ever lived were more ardently and devotedly attached than were they. The coroner and a picked jury of twelve men sat for two hours in consultation, after which they found a verdict of "Death by his own act, while insane from the bite of a gopher!"'

"In due time the body of the victim who had been killed so exceedingly dead, by cruel, cold poison—(if it had been warm he might have stood it, but cold!)—was consigned to the grave—and forgetfulness at the same time; and after a brief season of mourning, materially assisted before company by a peeled onion (one of the rankest kind) in a handkerchief, applied to the eyes—my Lady Gay, our disconsolate relict—fair, forty, and somewhat fat—gave tokens, by change of dress, that she was once more in the market matrimonial,

She was once more ready to dare and do for husband number three. To do her justice, she was good-looking—all women are, when they choose to be. Her face was fair and intelligent; she possessed a voluptuous degree of what Monsieur de Fillagre calls 'om-bong-pong' (embonpoint), could sing—at a mark; and if not O fat! was au fait—a little of both, perhaps—on the light, fantastic toe—of the California Order; while as an invaluable addition, there was no woman on the coast who could equal her in getting up either linen, a dinner, or a quarrel. She excelled all rivals in the really divine art of cooking a husband—beefsteak, I mean. Her pastry and bread were excellent, her tea was fine, and her coffee was all that man could wish, and more so, for it was good—perfectly killing—as we have seen.

"Betsey took matters coolly; was in no apparent hurry, for she had resolved to shoot only at high game, and, accordingly, after a time, deigned to smile upon the Reverend Doctor Dryasdust, the honored head of the new sect recently sprung up in the land, and which was known as the 'Wotcher Kawlums,' and who rejoiced in repudiating everything over five years old in the shape of doctrine, tenet and discipline, but who went in strongly for Progress and pantaloons—for women; for Honduras and the naked truth; for Socialism and sugar estates; mahogany and horticulture—a patent sort.

"Now, the pastor of this promising body felt that it was not good for man to be alone, and therefore cast about for a rib whereof to have fashioned a help meet unto him. He saw the widow, fell in love, proposed, was accepted, and in due time she became the wife of the Newlight preacher. I like the old lights best; she didn't.

"Betsey achieved a 'position'—a thing for which her sex almost proverbially sacrifice all they have on earth—happiness, health, long life, usefulness. She enjoyed herself quite well, and only two things disturbed her peace of mind: First, she could not bear the smell or sight of coffee, which drink her new lord was strongly addicted to, and insisted on her making for him with her own hands; thereby inflicting daily tortures upon her, compared to which all physical pain was pleasure. The second disturbing cause was this: by a very strange fatality their house was overrun with rats, and their garden fairly swarmed with gophers—which, with infernal malice and pertinacity, became quite tame, semi-domesticated, and intruded themselves upon her notice a dozen times a day, thereby fetching up from memory's storehouse fearful reminiscences of other days—horrible recollections of the gophers of the long-agone. It is hard to be weaned of your fears; nevertheless, after a while she conquered herself, brazened down her horrors, weighed herself, applied a false logic, tried herself by it, and returned a clear verdict of 'Justifiable all the way,' and concluded that her present happiness, what there was of it, fairly outweighed the crime by which it had been reached. She was materially justified in her conclusions by an accidental development of character on the part of her present husband, who had, in a fit of petulance, unfolded a leaf from the inner volume of the soul within.

"Not caring to recapitulate the whole story (for reticence is sometimes wisdom), I will merely observe that at the end of a somewhat heated controversy, her husband had smashed a mirror, with one of Webster's quarto dictionaries, and roundly declared that he 'preached for pay. Hang it, Madame, the salary's the thing!—you Bet! How can souls be saved without a salary? That's a plain question. They are not now, at all events, whatever may have been the case with the Old Lights, who had a great deal more zeal than discretion—more fools they! It can't be done in these days of high prices and costly raiment—with the obligation of feeding well and dressing better. What's life without money? What's talent without brass? What's genius without gold? They won't pay! No, no, Madame; in the game of life, diamonds are always trumps, and hearts are bound to lose. What's the result?

"'Listen! Five years ago, up in the mountains, I thought I had a call. I did, and went—and preached the new doctrines of Do-as-you-feel-a-mind-to-provided-you-don't-get-catched-at-it-ism—the regular out and out All-Right-ite-provided-you-don't-tread-on-my-corns religion. Well, I preached it, had large houses, converted many—and nearly starved! What's the consequence? Why, I left, and now hear only the loudest kind of calls! What's the loudest call? Why, the biggest salary! that's what's the matter! Do you see the point—the place where the laugh comes in? It's as plain as A B C to me, or any other man! and all the rest is leather and prunella—stuff, fudge—Hum!'

"Honest, out-spoken Dryasdust! How many of the world's teachers sail in the same boat! His eloquence—not all false, perhaps—was not lost upon his wife. The Dryasdusts are not all dead; there's a few more left of the same sort—only they keep their own counsel, even from their wives. New Lights!

"As a result of this conversation, Madame became a sort of cross between an Atheist and—God knows what; for she was neither one thing nor 'tother, but a sort of pseudo-philosophical nondescript, without any set principle of belief whatever. Her conscience froze.

"'Who knoweth the spirit of a man that it goeth upward, or of a beast that it goeth downward? The Spiritualists?—a pack of fanatics! I don't believe in ghosts'—but she shuddered as she gave utterance to the words, and her hair crawled upon her head as if touched with spectral fingers. No man disbelieves his immortality—the thing is impossible, per se; for although he may differ with that class of people who pretend to very extensive ghostly acquaintanceship and commerce, as many do—yet he doubtless always whistles as he passes a graveyard in the night! I certainly do! Why? Because I disbelieve in ghosts!—of course.

"She resumed her soliloquy: 'I'm nervous—that's all! I mean to eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow I die—DIE! What of it—isn't Death an eternal sleep? My husband says that it is, to all except the New Lights; but he's a fool, in some things, that's certain.... And after death the Judgement!' And she shuddered again, for a cold wind passed by her, and she thought it best to light two more candles and run her fingers over the piano, and take a glass of Sainsevain's best Angelica. 'Bah! who knows anything about a judgment? There's no such thing. He's dead. What of it? He can't talk! If he could, what of it? Ghosts can't testify in court! Besides, it was to be—and it's done. Fate is responsible, not I—

"'Tom was to die. The conditions that surrounded him were just such as had determined the results that followed. I was but the proxy of eternal Fate. Am I to blame? Certainly not, for I acted in precise accordance with the conditions that surrounded me—that made me do as I did—tempted me beyond my strength; and, for that reason, the crime, if crime it be, was a foregone conclusion from the foundation of the world! Hereafter?

"'Parrhasius was a true philosopher—or Willis. Pshaw! I guess I'll take another drop of Angelica!'

"Poor Betsey! she had been reading Pope and Leibnitz, and Ben Blood—bad, worse and worst, unfairly interpreted; good, better and best, rightly understood—and as the respective writers probably meant. Weak people read a book as children do Swift's Gulliver—on the surface; others read the great book whose letters are suns, whose words are starry systems, in the self-same manner; and there is still a greater volume—the first edition, to be continued—the Human Soul—which they never read at all. All of these must go to school; they will graduate by-and-by, when Death turns over a new leaf. It is best to study now—there may not be so good a chance presently.

"Betsey Clark believed, or thought she did, that because God made all things, therefore there could be no wrong in all the world. She accepted Pope's conclusions literally, misread them, and totally overlooked the sublime teachings of the third author named; and her mind went to rest, and her conscience slumbered under the sophisms—for such they are, from one point of view. The opiate acted well. And so she slept for years—long years of peace, wealth, all the world could give her—slept in the belief that there would never be a waking. Was she right? Wait. Let us see.

"We are still in the little chamber, near the window—the little window at the foot of the bed—whose upper sash was down."