He had been at death's door, sinking out of life, because he had nothing now to live for. He still was very weak in bed, faint, and worn, and white, propped up with pillows--that poor, bereaved old man. Ever since Lady Dillaway's most quiet death he had felt alone in the world. True, while she lived she had seemed to him a mere tranquil trouble, a useless complacent piece of furniture, often in his way; but now that she was dead, what a void was left where she had been--mere empty space, cold and death-like. She had left him quite alone. Then again--of John, poor John, he would think, and think continually--not about the little vulgar pock-marked man of 'change, the broker, the rogue, the coward--but of a happy curly child, with sparkling eyes--a merry-hearted, ruddy little fellow, romping with his sister--ay, in this very room; here is the identical China vase he broke, all riveted up; there is the corner where he would persist to nestle his dormice. Ah, dear child! precious child! where is he now?--Where and what indeed! Alas, poor father! had you known what I do, and shall soon inform the world, of that bad man's awful end, one more, one fiercest pang would have tormented you: but Heaven spared that pang. Nevertheless, the bitter contrast of the child and of the man had made him very wretched--and to the widower's solitude added the father's sadness. And worst of all--Maria's utter loss--that dear, warm-hearted, innocent, ill-used, and yet beloved daughter. Why did he spurn her away? and keep her away so long?--oh, hard heart, hard heart! Was she not innocent, after all? and John, bad John, too probably the forger of that letter, as the forger of this will? And now that he should give his life to see her, and kiss her, and--no, no, not forgive her, but pray to be forgiven by her--"Where is she? why doesn't she come to hold up my poor weak head--to see how fervently my dead old heart has at last learnt to love--to help a bad, and hard, a pardoned and penitent old man to die in perfect peace--to pray with me, for me, to God, our God, my daughter! Where is she--how can I find her out--why will she not come to me all this sorrowful year? Oh come, come, dear child--our Father send thee to me--come and bless me ere I die--come, my Maria!" Magical, or contrived, as it may seem to us, the poor old man was actually bemoaning himself thus, when our dear heroine of the Heart faintly knocked at her old home door. It opened; a faded-looking woman, with a baby in her arms, rushed past the astonished butler: and, just as her father was praying out aloud for Heaven to speed her to him, that daughter's step was at the bed-room door.