ld in her right hand the tool
of her trade, a long, narrow-bladed dagger.

She, too, had been unable to deny herself the last profit which the
unfriendly action of the citizens and my absence had left her. For one
instant they looked into each other's blazing eyes and then sprang
together with indescribable fury. Round and round the room they
struggled, the man cursing, the woman shrieking, both fighting like
demons--she to strike him with the dagger, he to strangle her with his
great bare hands. I know not how long I had the unhappiness to observe
this disagreeable instance of domestic infelicity, but at last, after a
more than usually vigorous struggle, the combatants suddenly moved
apart.

My father's breast and my mother's weapon showed evidences of contact.
For another instant they glared at each other in the most unamiable way;
then my poor, wounded father, feeling the hand of death upon him, leaped
forward, unmindful of resistance, grasped my dear mother in his arms,
dragged her to the side of the boiling cauldron, collected all his
failing energies, and sprang in with her! In a moment, both had
disappeared and were adding their oil to that of the committee of
citizens who had called the day before with an invitation to the public
meeting.

Convinced that these unhappy events closed to me every avenue to an
honorable career in that town, I removed to the famous city of Otumwee,
where these memoirs are written with a heart full of remorse for a
heedless act entailing so dismal a commercial disaster.

AN IMPERFECT CONFLAGRATION

Early one June morning in 1872 I murdered my father--an act which made a
deep impression on me at the time. This was before my marriage, while I
was living with my parents in Wisconsin. My father and I were in the
library of our home, dividing the proceeds of a burglary which we had
committed that night. These consisted of household goods mostly, and the
task of equitable division was difficult. We got on very well with the
napkins, towels and such things, and the silverware was parted pretty
nearly equally, but you can see for yourself that when you try to divide
a single music-box by two without a remainder you will have trouble. It
was that music-box which brought disaster and disgrace upon our family.
If we had left it my poor father might now be alive.

It was a most exquisite and beautiful piece of workmanship--inlaid with
costly woods and carven very curiously. It woul