from the grinning fiends, and that way was through the ebon gate of death. He would do it-yes he would do it, the instruments of destruction were within his reach; why then not use them at once? He started from his prostrate position and tottered towards the dressing-table. Leaning against it, for his legs shook beneath him, as though he had been seized with an ague fit, he took up a razor that was lying there; he looked at it, opened it, passed the edge lightly over the fore-finger of his left hand, and then laid it down again upon the table. The handle of the razor was stained with blood, and when Doleton perceived it, he looked at his right hand, saw it was red, and shuddered.

He remembered how it had been lacerated, and a vague idea entered his mind that he had attempted to murder somebody and would perhaps be put on trial in consequence. This was terrible -again he took up the razor, but at that moment he caught the reflection of his face in the lookingglass dimly, for there was no other light in the room than that of an oil-wick in a tumbler; and he started at the ghastliness-the hideous wildness of his aspect, dropped the razor and turned away his face. He could not use that instrument-the hacking and the hewing, and the blood upon his white garments were too horrible in prospect. But he could not live-how was it possible for him to face the morrow's light? That way madness was lying,

and worse

oh much worse than madness - he flung himself again upon his couch.

He could not weep-he could not pray-he tried to do both, but failed. If he could have wept away his life, how happy it would have been. He hid his face between his hands, but he could not shut out the ghastly congregation of images that flitted before his eyes and mocked him-there stood Hardyman with his finger pointed, and Colonel Doleton with folded arms-the one smiling, the other frowning-and there sat Harcourt on the sofa with his arm round Mrs. Doleton's waist. Horror upon horror accumulated. Death in any shape was better than this.

Again Doleton rose from his couch. He had pistols, he remembered, in the room. The colonel had given them to him and made him use them-made him practise at a mark. They were in a case, and the case was on a chest of drawers. Doleton took it thence and placed it on the table, having done which he removed the looking-glass and laid it on the couch lest he should see his face in it again. At first he could not find the key of his pistol-case; but he searched for it slowly and uncertainly-looking in all the most unlikely places first, on purpose to delay for a few minutes the execution of that which he might have delayed indefinitely had he wished. But he did find it at last; and he unlocked the pistol-case, took out the pair, looked at them

carefully, observed a little rust on one of the barrels and tried to wipe it off with his glove. Then he examined their locks, found that they were in good order, and went again to the drawers to take out of them a little round pasteboard-box, about half full of French percussion caps. The drawer was open, and in less than a minute he had selected a couple of caps, which he placed upon an old note on his dressing-table; having done which he took his powder flask, poured a double charge into one of the pistols, rammed it down with a piece of brown paper for wadding, and then took a bullet out of a green baize bag that was hanging over his towel-horse. He looked curiously at the leaden ball-weighed it for a few seconds between his finger and thumb-kissed it with an idiotic smile upon his face-dropped it into the barrel and rammed it down as though he would never have been tired of hearing the noise that the rammer-head made against the bullet; this done, he took up the other pistol, loaded it in like manner, and placed the two side by side on the table.

The next thing that he did was to open his blotting-book, take a pen and begin writing upon a sheet of Bath paper, with a shaking hand and staring eyes-" Mother," he wrote, "I could not bear it it was too much for me to endure-I could not know that and live. May God forgive you, as I do. Your wretched son, CHARLES."

The paper was blotted and smeared, and the

writing scarcely legible for the erasures; but the unhappy youth folded and addressed it, placed his razor-case on the corner to keep it from blowing away, and then took up one of the pistols.

He put the muzzle into his mouth and placed his finger on the trigger-one moment, and all would have been over-a slight muscular motion, and then eternal quiescence. But he was a coward to the last-he durst not fire-he withdrew his hand-he was safe, and a third time he flung himself on his bed.

And there he lay groaning, shuddering; yet he felt as if a crushing weight had just been removed from his heart. He had escaped death, he thought; and yet the death he had escaped was only one of his own seeking. He was lighter, however-more composed in consequence of the escape; and the lesser more remote perils were almost forgotten in the thought of the great and imminent one he had avoided. There was some comfort in this-and wretched as he was, he laid his head upon the pillow, and slept.

Yes-that miserable youth slept-slept for several hours, dream-haunted as he was slept, though a burning fever was rioting in his every vein -slept, but only to awake again in a state more fearful than that in which he had sunk to rest. The rampant fever had mounted to his brain, and he awoke wild, terror-haunted, delirious. He remembered, and only this, that he had a dreadful purpose to accomplish, that he had loaded his pistols for

self-destruction; no fears, no misgivings withheld him now; he was strong with a fever-born courage. The oil-light, in the corner of the room, was burning dimly, flickering, spluttering, for it had been consumed almost to the water. But there was light enough for the unhappy youth to see the pistols on the table, he grasped one of them— stretched his jaws widely apart-clutched his teeth on the barrel, and in a moment he had fallen heavily on the matted floor-a mutilated, shattered corpse.

Never had a more fearful deed been accomplished under the impression of a more miserable error. The mother of that wretched suicide was as pure, as unspotted as the snow on the mountain top. Harcourt had been to the house, but only to see little Clara Doleton. The child had felt poorly, and had complained to her mother, who, having wept over the death-beds of so many children, experienced more uneasiness on her favourite's account than indeed the occasion warranted, and had sent off immediately for Dr. Harcourt just as he was dressing to go to the mess. Dr. Harcourt had attended one of her other children, and Mrs. Doleton felt an entire confidence in him, as well as liked him for his kindness and attention. Upon the present occasion Harcourt had spent nearly two hours by the child's bedside, watching the effect of some medicine he had administered; and just before he rose to take his departure, Mrs. Doleton had implored him not