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ſnapped—the name of his wife and children he could not articulate, when ſomething like a prayer for them eſcaped his livid lips, and ſhook his exhausted frame—The blood flowed in a copious ſtream—vainly did Mr. Lofty endeavour to ſtaunch it—the heart loſt its vital nouriſhment, and the ſoul eſcaped as he preſſed the hand of his deſtroyer, who, when he found him breathleſs, ran home, and ruſhed in a hurry into his own chamber. The dead man’s image haunted his imagination—he ſtarted—imagined that he was at his elbow, and ſhook the hand that had received the dying graſp; yet ſtill it was preſſed, and the preſſure entered into his very ſoul. On the table lay two piſtols, he caught up one,—and ſhot himſelf. The report alarmed the family: the ſervants and his daughter, for his brother was not at home, broke open the door, and ſhe ſaw the dreadful ſight! As there was ſtill ſome appearance of life, a trembling ray, ſhe ſupported the body, and ſent for aſſiſtance: but he ſoon died in her arms without ſpeaking, before the ſervant returned with a ſurgeon.