every possible place, and all his friends communicated with, nothing whatever could be heard of him. The fellows began to rake up every bit of his conversation they could recollect. As we have already narrated, at Oxford he was deeply religious, but his medical studies had imbued him with serious doubts on all the distinctive dogmas of Christianity, till at last the atmosphere of the dissecting-room and the physiological laboratory seemed to have weakened his faith in God, the soul, and the future life. It was the fact that this state of things often obtained at St Bernard’s. All its professors but one or two were agnostics, or even atheists. Some were serious, thoughtful men, who grieved they could not believe; while others, as far as they dared, made a jest of the most sacred themes. Young men—and especially young medical men—are prone to copy very closely the speech and the modes of thought of those who are in authority over them, and the school took its tone from the many brilliant men of science on its teaching staff. The microscope, the test-tube, and the scalpel had dissipated much of young Elsworth’s faith, and he had not cared to conceal it. Had he committed suicide? Why should he? He was not embarrassed; he had ample means and wealthy friends. Nor was he involved in any intrigues, as far as could be known; and as he was of the liveliest and most optimistic turn of mind, the idea was scouted by those who knew him best. CHAPTER XVIII. AN EPICURE OF PAIN. I pity the unfortunate who, in their necessities, find only the succour of the civil authorities, without the intervention of Christian charity. In reports presented to the public, philanthropy may and will exaggerate the care which it lavishes on the unfortunate, but things will not be so in reality.—_Balmez._ He loves not to be prodigal of men’s lives, but thriftily improves the objects of his cruelty, spending them by degrees, and epicurizing on their pain.—_Thos. Fuller._