“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?”