“Yes; what of it?”

“A woman hanged herself there a year ago.  The family consisted of the husband and wife, and two bright, beautiful children.  He was thrifty and prosperous, she was an excellent housekeeper, and the children were healthy and well-behaved.  In appearance a happier family could not be found on the hill.  One day Mr. P—­came home at the usual hour, and, missing the wife’s customary greeting, he asked the children where she was.  The children had not seen their mother for two or three hours, and looked startled when they found she was missing.  Messengers were sent to the nearest neighbors to make inquiries, but no one had seen her.  Mr. P ——­’s face began to wear a troubled look as he walked the floor, from time to time going to the door and casting anxious glances about the premises.

“About dusk a sudden shriek was heard, issuing from the water-tank in the yard, and the Irish servant-girl came rushing from it, with eyes distended and face pale with terror.

“Holy Mother of God!  It’s the Missus that’s hanged herself!”

The alarm spread, and soon a crowd, curious and sympathetic, had collected.  They found the poor lady suspended by the neck from a beam at the head of the staircase leading to the top of the inclosure.  She was quite dead, and a horrible sight to see.  At the inquest no facts were developed throwing any light on the tragedy.  There had been no cloud in the sky portending the lightning stroke that laid the happy little home in ruins.  The husband testified that she was as bright and happy the morning of the suicide as he had ever seen her, and had parted with him at the door with the usual kiss.  Every thing about the house that day bore the marks of her deft and skillful touch.  The two children were dressed with accustomed neatness and, good taste.  And yet the bolt was in the cloud, and it fell before the sun had set!  What was the mystery?  Ever afterward I felt something of the feeling expressed by my lady friend when, in passing, I looked upon the structure which had been the scene of this singular tragedy.

One of the most energetic business men living in one of the foothill towns, on the northern edge of the Sacramento Valley, had a charming wife, whom he loved with a deep and tender devotion.  As in all true love-matches, the passion of youth had ripened into a yet stronger and purer love with the lapse of years and participation in the joys and sorrows of wedded life.  Their union had been blessed with five children, all intelligent, sweet, and full of promise.  It was a very affectionate and happy household.  Both parents possessed considerable literary taste and culture, and the best books and current magazine literature were read, discussed, and enjoyed in that quiet and elegant home amid the roses and evergreens.  It was a little paradise in the hills, where Love, the home-angel, brightened every room and blessed every heart.  But trouble came in the shape of business