He only stays here for you, hoping in vain. . ’ Fresh suspicion kindled in his breast. A little smothered cry broke from her lips—the curtains were thrown aside and a man stepped out. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. Dare we look back upon the darkened vista, and, in imagination retrace the path we have trod? With how many vain hopes is it shaded! with how many good resolutions, never fulfilled, is it paved! Where are the dreams of ambition in which, twelve years ago, we indulged? Where are the aspirations that fired us—the passions that consumed us then? Has our success in life been commensurate with our own desires—with the anticipations formed of us by others? Or, are we not blighted in heart, as in ambition? Has not the loved one been estranged by doubt, or snatched from us by the cold hand of death? Is not the goal, towards which we pressed, further off than ever—the prospect before us cheerless as the blank behind?—Enough of this. Nasty, damp passages. Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and began to laugh as heartily as any of them. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. " "Never," replied Winifred. ’ A little sigh escaped her. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. "My father!" she whispered. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. .
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