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My father was a speculator, and had made a large fortune; success made him sanguine, he embarked his whole capital with his dearest friend in an undertaking from which he expected to retire a millionaire.

His friend proved a swindler, and one morning he woke up to find himself ruined. The blow proved too much for him.

In the evening he said good-night to my mother as usual, and retired to his study.

In the morning he was not in his room when the servant knocked, so she informed my mother, who arose with terrible forebodings, and hastened to the library. The door was locked. They knocked—received no answer—broke it down, and there, sitting in his arm-chair before his desk, was all that remained of my father.

He left a letter to my mother, saying he had lost everything, and, being old, did not see any chance of recovering his losses, so thought the best thing he could do was to kill himself.

He called down the vengeance of God on the wretch who had ruined him, and ended by asking her to forgive him for leaving her.

I will pass over the inquest, merely stating that the verdict was suicide from prussic acid. My mother was very ill for some time, and when she