before her husband, she left the table; on going through the hall she saw a note in her husband's hat which she found, upon reading, was from the seamstress, then in her employ, appointing the time and place for a private meeting.
She had not finished her history till she again got into one of her mad fits. I told her husband what she had said, but he told me there was no truth in her story, it was only a freak of her fancy.
The carriage was ordered, and we went to the asylum. On reaching there we heard screaming and shouting; some preaching, some praying, some blaspheming. She at once said: "Oh, Iangy, this is the mad-house, and they are going to put me in," and she became, apparently, as well as she ever was in her life, and was perfectly calm and collected. On reaching the door two physicians came out; she took an arm of each and walked in. On getting to the top of the stairs she turned back and looked at me and bowed her head. I burst into heartfelt tears, and I assure you I wept freely. I never shall forget her look, should I live a century.
I have several times, during my narrative, mentioned dressing in Cincinnati, or its immediate neighborhood, one hundred and fifty brides. Many of them were very lovely, but none more so than the tenth that I dressed; she was, indeed, a beautiful creature, and was as lovely in her disposition as in her appearance. She and her husband were universally beloved, not only in Cincinnati, but wherever they chanced to go. Their wedding was one of the largest ever witnessed in this city—there having been nearly a thousand invitations sent out—and a gay and brilliant party it
