The works of Edgar Allan Poe; newly collected and edited, with a memoir, critical introductions, and notes, by Edmund Clarence Stedman and George Edward Woodberry; the illustrations by Albert Edward Sterner.

THE TELL-TALE HEART
TRUE! - nervous-very, very dreadfully nervous
I had been and am; but why will you say that I
am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses -
not destroyed- not dulled them. Above all was the
sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the
heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in' hell.
How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how
healthily-how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my
brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and
night. Object there was none. Passion there was
none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged
me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I
had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was
this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture -
a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it
fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees
-very gradually - I made up my mind to take the
life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye
forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me.
You should have seen how wisely I proceeded - with
what caution- with what foresight- with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the
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