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It would have been difficult then, to say which was the really crazy one -- the mother, who lay trembling in my arms, and calling aloud for her child, or Mary, who with wild laugher, was presenting to the child her shrivelled breasts.

It was resolved not to employ force, but allow Mary to retire into the cell, and when she was asleep, to take away the child.

Once in her cell, Mary laid the child at the foot of the bed, pressed down the matress, and disposed the clothes into the form of a cradle -- while the real mother, with her face pressed against the gratings of the cell, watched in the twilight of the place, with haggard and streaming eyes, every motion of the lunatic.

Mary carefully disposed the child in its new made bed, hushed it, and sung little nursery songs, with a wild and fitful voice and then fell asleep beside the infant.

The nurse immediately entered the cell on tiptoe, snatched up the child, and restored it to its other's arms, who screamed with joy, and fled away with her precious burthen.

The cry of the mother awakened Mary, she felt beside her in vain for the child -- she ran to the grating, and shook it with a powerful arm -- she saw the child borne from her, she uttered a wild discordant cry, and fell her whole length upon the floor -- she was dead! -- twice was too much.