A cap of peculiar and ancient form was upon his head, and his person was enveloped in a robe of russet, confined about the waist by a twisted girdle. His motions were tremulous and feeble, his countenance wan and death-like, his frame to the last degree emaciated. A bed stood in one corner of the room; a table, and two roughly made forms, were all the furniture of that miserable apartment; but around the small furnace, at which the old man had been lately employed, were gathered crucibles, minerals, chemical preparations, and tools of mysterious form and curious workmanship, but well understood by the artist. Once more the adept, for such was the inmate of this lonely dwelling, scanned with searching eye the contents of a crucible; while the pale flame which rose suddenly from the sullen fire, cast over his sunken features a hue still more livid and cadaverous. His labors had resulted in disappointment; he sighed heavily, and dropping his implements, abandoned his self-imposed task. “It is over,” he murmured, “my hour is almost come—and should I repine? No—no. Life!—wretched and misspent!—world! I have sacrificed thee, to thyself!—wonderful enigma, yet how true!” Turning his steps to the table, he took from thence a lamp, and walked feebly to a remote end of the room. Here, on a humble couch, lay a sleeping child; it was a boy, slender, pale, and bearing in his young face the indications of sorrow and of want—yet was he exquisitely beautiful. He slept still, and heavily. The adept gazed at him long and deeply. “He sleeps. Victim as he is, of his father’s errors, and his crimes—shunned by his fellows—hunted by the unfeeling—pinched with cold—and perishing with hunger—yet—he sleeps. Father of Heaven! such is the meed of innocence! _I_, shall never more know rest,—till the long sleep of death that knows no awakening!—No awakening—and is it so?” A blast of wind swept by, rocking the old pile to its foundation, the thunder rolled heavily above, and the keen blue lightning shone through every crevice. The old man looked fearfully around: a deeper paleness overspread his face, and cold drops stood on his brow and sallow temples. “The angel of death is surely abroad this night—he seeks his victim.” Tottering to the bed he sunk down upon it, and closing his eyes, an almost deadly sickness seized him. He called faintly for Adolf. The lad had already risen, for the storm had awakened him. He went to the bedside. The old man could not speak. The child was affrighted and gazed earnestly upon the face of his parent. The senses of the latter had not forsaken him, and he motioned with his hand toward the table, on which stood a small cup. Adolf brought it to his father, and moistened his lips with the liquid. The old man revived. After a few moments he spoke, but his voice was tremulous and low.