The magistrate had seen much of human nature, and he very soon came to the conclusion, in his own mind, that brave, ardent, and enthusiastic as Albert Seyton was, he would be very far from an efficient assistant in a matter that required the utmost coolness, caution, and finesse. Thus it was that he acted entirely independent of Albert, and said as little to him as he could upon the subject, at the same time that he, Sir Francis Hartleton, would not have lost a moment in communicating with Albert, had any discovery really taken place at the old house at Battersea. While all this was going on, Albert Seyton pursued his inquiries, although with a languid spirit, for there was no place he had not already several times visited. Twice or thrice he had actually looked at the house in which Ada was a prisoner, and once he thought of crossing the fields from curiosity to visit it, but was told that it was in ruins, and in fact dangerous to approach, as it was expected to fall to the ground very shortly; and considering it as a most unlikely place to search in, standing as it did so very much exposed to observation in its situation, he abandoned the notion of crossing the marshy fields to the old ruin. Pale and languid, he would return to his father in the evening, and it was some time before he noticed that there were perceptible signs of rapid decay creeping over the only earthly tie he had, save Ada. In truth. Mr. Seyton was near that bourne from whence no traveller returns, and in the midst of his other griefs, the absorbing one sprang up, of the loss of his father. Every other consideration was now abandoned by Albert in his anxious solicitude for his father’s health. It seemed, however, that a rapid decay of nature was taking place, and in less than three days Mr. Seyton lay at the point of death. Medical advice was of no avail; the physician who was called in declared that neither he nor any of his brethren could do anything in the case. There, was no disease to grapple with—it seemed as if nature had said, “the time of dissolution has come, and it may not be averted.” It was early dawn, and the stillness that reigned throughout London had something awful and yet sublime in it, when Albert, who had been watching by the bedside of his father, was roused from a slight slumber into which, from pure exhaustion, he had sunk, by the low, faint voice of his dying parent feebly pronouncing his name. “Albert, Albert!” he said. Albert started, and replied to his father. “Yes, father, I am here.” “You are here, my boy, and you will remain here many years—here in this world, I mean, which I hope may teem with happiness to you; but I am on my last journey, Albert; I shall not see another day.” “Father, say not so,” replied Albert, endeavouring to assume a tone of cheerfulness that was foreign to his feelings. “Say not so; we may yet be together many years.”