"else thy wrathful weapons had not, failed.
Thou hast not pierced my heart, Augustus;
but thou hast broken it. I shall not die of thy
wounds, but of thee — of sorrow and fear of
thy eternal weal, unless thou seest how thou
art captive to the power of darkness, urging
thee to deeds of cruelty against thy better will.
I was suffered to be thy help, thy good, thy
staff and stay, and thou hast cast me suddenly,
broken, from thy hand. Think of me the
more, Augustus, when I am gone. Go burn
thy lawless, wicked books, the traps of Satan to
ensnare thy soul — burn them, I say; thy dying
teacher bids thee. Add not rebellion to witch-
craft, the sister-sin, now that thou art shown
the truth; but turn thee quick to the Atoner,
that I may meet thee there."

The heavy eyes rolled upwards, then closed,
and a lovely smile settled on the gentle face,
which had not passed away, when, some hours
later, all that pertained to earth, of little Ruth,
was dressed for its early grave.

That very strong suspicions should attach to
Lopré was only to be expected. Although no
one had seen him return home, it was known
that they had gone out together, and had been
seen walking apart, but conversing with that quiet
tenderness that had, of late, invariably marked
their intercourse. One of the men who had
brought the child home was, for some
unexplained reason, so impressed with Lopré's guilt,
that he had, on his own responsibility, hurried
away to the nearest magistrate and demanded
his arrest. This, however, occupied some time;
and it was very midnight, or rather early
morning, when those charged with the warrant
reached Tabernacle Lodge.

During this period Lopré had remained
secluded in his chamber, and was often heard
moving busily about, as if preparing for
departure. The door was therefore watched; but
he made no attempt to escape, and, on the
arrival of the constables, it was thought
advisable to defer his capture till dawn, especially
as the blinds permitted an occasional glimpse
of their intended prisoner, and a strong light
in the room confirmed the suspicion that he was
merely destroying papers.

With the first streak of day, the watchers—
not without caution — approached his door.
Before they could summon him, Lopré stood
before them, holding forth his hands as though
to receive the handcuffs. Disordered, haggard,
yet with eyes ablaze with insane fire, his
spectral aspect almost daunted the stout thief-
catchers. But the war was all within. He was
quiet — totally dumb — and exhibited no
outward sign of emotion, but once, when, on the
way to the gate, he was suddenly asked if
certain dark-red stains on his sleeve were the
blood of the murdered child.

In this mute, half-conscious condition the
unhappy man remained for a week, growing weaker
and weaker, until all idea of subjecting him to an
examination was necessarily abandoned. On
the ninth morning of his imprisonment, the
watchers in his cell made this report:

About midnight, Lopré, who, though always
preserving silence, had been unusually restless,
tossing on his truckle-bed, and breathing hard,
sank into a torpor. This had lasted about half
an hour, when a sudden sound and movement
startled the custodian then on duty. The
prisoner had risen to a sitting posture, his eyes
staring wild, his hand grasping the air. He
was trying to speak, and he did get out some
words, but they were "nothing, no meaning,
as I could see," said the watcher. Pressed on
this point, he explained that the words, "so's
he could remember," was only this:

"My little saint! ..... My saint!"

That, having uttered these meaningless words,
he dropped suddenly back, and seemed to sleep.
At daybreak, observing that he remained still
in the same position, very quiet, they went to
examine their prisoner, and found he had
expired.

Two incidents succeeded Lopré's death — the
arrival of a London constable, who identified
the body as that of the once-renowned gamester
and debauchee, Captain Gullayne; and, secondly,
the discovery of the remains of Lord George
Francis Olliphant, which, with skull fractured,
and a ball through the breast, had been buried
in the wood.

And wherefore these apparently motiveless
crimes? Shall we refer them, without
comment, to the great assize, where secrets cannot
live? Or can we accept the idea suggested by
a writer of the day, and founded upon some
scorched pages of one of the volumes Lopré,
or Gullayne, had sought to destroy, namely,
that the study of certain treatises, now
happily obsolete, concerning occult philosophy and
the "black art," acting upon a brain half-
maddened by every species of excess, had beguiled
the unhappy student into the belief that he had
embraced the service of the powers of evil, and
must blindly work their will?

Stitched in a cover, price Fourpence,
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MR. CHARLES DICKENS'S READINGS.
MR. CHARLES DICKENS will read at Bath on Saturday
the 9th instant; at St. James's Hall, London, on Tuesday
the 12th; at Birmingham on Wednesday the 13th, and
at Manchester on Saturday the 16th instant.

Now ready,
THE SIXTEENTH VOLUME.
Price 5s, 6d., bound in cloth.