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. In vain Wood protested his innocence. ” Anna never flinched. “I wrote it for you. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. Capes was married,” said Ann Veronica, resuming the conversation with an entire disappearance of her former lassitude.
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