There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. 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. "Auntie?" he cried. Instead of which, more than half an hour has elapsed. Sometimes it seemed that she would never recover it. He did not explain what had happened to her. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. ToC Just as St.
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