This amiable parent died when Anna was near eighteen, and left her to the care of her father, whose high spirit she had imbibed. However, the religious principles which her mother had instilled regulated her notions of honour, and so elevated her character, that her heart was regulated by her understanding. Her father, who had insensibly involved himself in debt after her mother’s death, tried many different schemes of life, all of which at first wore a promising aspect; but wanting that suppleness of temper, that enables people to rise in the world, his struggles, instead of extricating, sunk him still deeper. Wanting also the support of religion, he became sour, easily irritated, and almost hated a world whose applause he had once eagerly courted. His affairs were at last in such a desperate state, that he was obliged, reluctantly, to accept of an invitation from his brother, who with his wife, a weak fine lady, intended to spend some time on the continent; his daughter was, of course, to be of the party. The restraint of obligations did not suit his temper, and feeling himself dependent, he imagined every one meant to insult him. Some sarcasms were thrown out one day by a gentleman, in a large company; they were not personal, yet he took fire. His sore mind was easily hurt, he resented them; and heated by wine, they both said more than their cool reason would have suggested. Mr. Lofty imagined his honour was wounded, and the next morning sent him a challenge. They met—and he killed his antagonist, who, dying, pardoned him, and declared that the sentiments which had given him so much offence fell from him by accident, and were not levelled at any person. The dying man lamented, that the thread of a thoughtless life had been so suddenly 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.