’ ‘What if she goes back to Charvill?’ demanded Roding. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. But it's French manners, I suppose. 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. Wood thought them both remarkably plain, but Mr. "But I tell you frankly, and Mr. ‘Caught her sneaking after that Valade fellow. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that.
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