n go out. And it is especially simple when it is taken
into consideration that his body is ravaged by innutrition and disease,
in addition to his soul being torn by the sight of his suffering wife and
little ones.

"He is a good-looking man, with a mass of black hair, dark, expressive
eyes, delicately chiselled nose and chin, and wavy, fair moustache." This
is the reporter's description of Frank Cavilla as he stood in court, this
dreary month of September, "dressed in a much worn grey suit, and wearing
no collar."

Frank Cavilla lived and worked as a house decorator in London. He is
described as a good workman, a steady fellow, and not given to drink,
while all his neighbours unite in testifying that he was a gentle and
affectionate husband and father.

His wife, Hannah Cavilla, was a big, handsome, light-hearted woman. She
saw to it that his children were sent neat and clean (the neighbours all
remarked the fact) to the Childeric Road Board School. And so, with such
a man, so blessed, working steadily and living temperately, all went
well, and the goose hung high.

Then the thing happened. He worked for a Mr. Beck, builder, and lived in
one of his master's houses in Trundley Road. Mr. Beck was thrown from
his trap and killed. The thing was an unruly horse, and, as I say, it
happened. Cavilla had to seek fresh employment and find another house.

This occurred eighteen months ago. For eighteen months he fought the big
fight. He got rooms in a little house in Batavia Road, but could not
make both ends meet. Steady work could not be obtained. He struggled
manfully at casual employment of all sorts, his wife and four children
starving before his eyes. He starved himself, and grew weak, and fell
ill. This was three months ago, and then there was absolutely no food at
all. They made no complaint, spoke no word; but poor folk know. The
housewives of Batavia Road sent them food, but so respectable were the
Cavillas that the food was sent anonymously, mysteriously, so as not to
hurt their pride.

The thing had happened. He had fought, and starved, and suffered for
eighteen months. He got up one September morning, early. He opened his
pocket-knife. He cut the throat of his wife, Hannah Cavilla, aged thirty-
three. He cut the throat of his first-born, Frank, aged twelve. He cut
the throat of his son, Walter, aged eight. He cut the throat of his
daughter, Nellie, aged four. He cut the throat of his yo