uspicion showed a more audacious front than it had done on the
previous occasion, and M. de Lacroix was arrested for murder. The loud
cries of Madame de Lacroix, heard the day before her death, were
sufficient to put M. de Lacroix on his trial.

"Either from contrition, or some other cause of fear or hope, M. de
Lacroix confessed that the death of Thora had been brought about by his
own hand. It seems, sir, by some act of the basest depravity, Heaven
permits that the fallen condition of man should be forced, at intervals,
on our minds, to show the necessity of keeping in subjection the vicious
propensities of our thoughts and deeds; for, unless it be so, I can in
no way solve the reckless abandonment of all human feeling in the breast
of M. de Lacroix. Ever afterwards, from the day I met Thora accidentally
on this spot, her husband gave way to fits of frequent jealousy and
anger; and a home, which had been one of harmony and joy, was then
converted into a den of contention and the bitterest acrimony. In one of
these domestic brawls, M. de Lacroix resolved to murder his beautiful
wife; and the plan he devised to accomplish his purpose was as novel as
it was diabolical.

"In the dead of night, when the young and innocent Thora was folded in
profound sleep, M. de Lacroix arose, and, going to a small box, took
thence a needle not larger than those in ordinary use, but of greater
length. Returning to the bed where Thora still lay, breathing with the
long, heavy respiration of slumber, he leaned over her, and the moment
he did so, and but for a moment, a low, spasmodic cry was heard, a
slight struggle shook the bed, and all was hushed as before. M. de
Lacroix had driven the needle into Thora's heart! Wiping with his finger
the trifling drop of blood which oozed from the puncture, he effaced all
trace of violence from the body."

The old man paused; and, drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, hid his
face in it, and, from the convulsive movement of his shoulders, I could
see he was weeping bitterly, though in silence.

"So ends, sir," with faltering accents the old man soon continued, "the
cause of all my misery. I am old now, and yet in my old age I keep fresh
the feelings of my youth; and, therefore, I wander hither every day to
gaze upon the blue sky, and bask in its warmth; but never to forget her
whose loss has made oblivion a desire, and created the hope, that, Death
be an eternal end of sensibility."

The old man