This child was murdered by a fool.  The fools are always murdering children, though the work is not always done as effectually as in this case.  They cripple and half kill them by terror.  There are many who will read this Sketch who will carry to the grave, and into the world of spirits, natures out of which half the sweetness, and brightness, and beauty has been crushed by ignorance or brutality.  In most cases it is ignorance.  The hand that should guide, smites; the voice that should soothe, jars the sensitive chords that are untuned forever.  He who thoughtlessly excites terror in a child’s heart is unconsciously doing the devil’s work; he that does it consciously is a devil.

“There is a lady here whom I wish you would talk to.  She belongs to one of the most respectable families in San Francisco, is cultivated, refined, and has been the center of a large and loving circle.  Her monomania is spiritual despair.  She thinks she has committed the unpardonable sin.  There she is now.  I will introduce you to her.  Talk with her, and comfort her if you can.”

She was a tall, well-formed woman in black, with all the marks of refinement in her dress and bearing.  She was walking the floor to and fro with rapid steps, wringing her hands, and moaning piteously.  Indescribable anguish was in her face—­it was a hopeless face.  It haunted my thoughts for many days, and it is vividly before me as I write now.  The kind physician introduced me, and left the apartment.

There is a sacredness about such an interview that inclines me to veil its details.

“I am willing to talk with you, sir, and appreciate your motive, but I understand my situation.  I have committed the unpardonable sin, and I know there is no hope for me.”

With the earnestness excited by intense sympathy, I combated her conclusion, and felt certain that I could make her see and feel that she had given way to an illusion.  She listened respectfully to all I had to say, and then said again: 

“I know my situation.  I denied my Saviour after all his goodness to me, and he has left me forever.”

There was the frozen calmness of utter despair in look and tone.  I left her as I found her.

“I will introduce you to another woman, the opposite of the poor lady you have just seen.  She thinks she is a queen, and is perfectly harmless.  You must be careful to humor her illusion.  There she is—­let me present you.”

She was a woman of immense size, enormously fat, with broad red face, and a self-satisfied smirk, dressed in some sort of flaming scarlet stuff, profusely tinseled all over, making a gorgeously ridiculous effect.  She received me with a mixture of mock dignity and smiling condescension, and surveying herself admiringly, she asked: 

“How do you like my dress?”