“Albert, do not try to delude me and yourself with false hopes—listen to what I shall say to you now.” “I will, father.” “They are my last words, Albert, and it is said that when the spirit is about to quit its earthly tenement, and is hovering, as it were, upon the confines of eternity, it is permitted to see things that in its grosser state were far above its ken, and even to obtain some dim glimpse of the future, so that it may to the ear of those it loves hazard guesses of that which is to come.” Albert listened with eager attention to his father’s words; and it seemed to him as if there were something of heavenly inspiration in his tones. After a pause, Mr. Seyton continued,— “Albert, for two days now I have known no peace on your account,—” “On my account, father?” “Yes, Albert. By my death, the pension which my just claims have wrung from the government, for which I suffered so much, ceases, and you know I have not enjoyed it long enough to leave any sum that will do more than supply your immediate exigencies.” “Think not of me now, father,” said Albert; “dismiss all uneasiness from your mind on my account. I am young, and can labour for my bread as well as—as—” “As what, my boy?” “As my griefs will let me, father.” “Listen to me, Albert. I say I have suffered much on your account, because the thought haunted me that I was leaving you to struggle unaided in a cold, selfish, and too—too frequently, wicked world; but now that feeling, by some mysterious means, has left me.” “Indeed, father?” “Yes, a kind of confidence—surely from Heaven—has crept over my heart concerning you, and, without knowing how or why, I seem to have a deep and thorough conviction that you will be happy and prosperous.” “Father,” said Albert, “for your sake do I rejoice in your words, not for my own. If you must be taken by God from me, let me see you thus even to the last, free from care and that cankering anxiety which has now for some time afflicted you.” “Yes, I am comparatively happy,” said Mr. Seyton. “You will wed her whom you love, and there shall not be a cloud in the sky of your prosperity and happiness. All shall be achieved by Heaven in its own good time.” “Father, your words sink deep into my heart,” cried Albert; “they come to me as if from the lips of the Eternal One himself.” “I—I would fain have lingered with you, my boy, yet awhile, even until I could have seen and rejoiced in all this that I now foretel to you. But it may not be—it may not be.” “Oh, yes! There is still hope.” “No, no! My mortal race is nearly run.” Albert wept. “Nay, Albert, do not weep,” said his father; “we and all we love—all who have loved us—will meet again.” “’Tis a dear hope,” said Albert, endeavouring to control his tears. “And now, my dear boy, when you do see this young and innocent girl—this Ada, whom you love—tell her I send her my blessing, and beg her to accept it as she would a father’s. You will tell her, Albert?”