"They are, indeed," replied old Hornblow, delighted at the happy face of his daughter;--"but I should like some tea, Susan--I am not used to so much jumbling. I feel tired, and shall go to bed early." Tea was accordingly prepared; soon after which, the old gentleman rose to retire. "Well," said he, as he lighted his chamber candle, "I suppose I am settled here for life; but I hardly know what to do with myself. I must make acquaintance with all the flowers and all the trees: the budding of the spring will make me think of grandchildren; the tree, clothed in its beauty, of you; and the fall of the leaf, of myself. I must count the poultry, and look after the pigs, and see the cows milked. I was fond of the little parlour in Cateaton-street, because I had sat in it so long; and I suppose that I shall get fond of this place too, if I find enough to employ and amuse me. But you must be quick and give me a grandchild, Susan, and then I shall nurse him all day long. Good night--God bless you, my dear, good night." "Good night, my dear sir," replied Susan, who had coloured deeply at the request which he had made. "Good night, McElvina, my boy; this is the first night we pass under this roof; may we live many happy years in it;" and old Hornblow left the room, and ascended the stairs. McElvina had encircled Susan's waist with his arm, and was probably about to utter some wish in unison with that of her father, when the noise of a heavy fall sounded in their ears. "Good Heaven!" cried Susan, "it is my father who has fallen down stairs." McElvina rushed out; it was but too true. The stair-carpet had not yet been laid down, and his foot had slipped at the uppermost step. He was taken up senseless, and when medical advice was procured, his head and his spine were found to be seriously injured. In a few days, during which he never spoke, old Hornblow was no more. Thus the old man, like the prophet of old, after all his toiling, was but permitted to see the promised land; and thus are our days cut short at the very moment of realising our most sanguine expectations. Reader, let us look at home. Shall I, now thoughtlessly riding upon the agitated billow, with but one thin plank between me and death, and yet so busy with this futile work, be permitted to bring it to a close? The hand which guides the flowing pen may to-morrow be stiff; the head now teeming with its subject may be past all thought ere to-morrow's sun is set--ay, sooner! And you, reader, who may so far have had the courage to proceed in the volumes without throwing them away, shall you be permitted to finish your more trifling task?--or, before its close, be hurried from this transitory scene where fiction ends, and the spirit, re-endowed, will be enabled to raise its eyes upon the lightning beams of unveiled truth? CHAPTER THIRTY. And if you chance his shipp to borde, This counsel I must give withall. BALLAD OF SIR ANDREW BARTON, 1560.