"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me. "Good gracious! so I do," exclaimed his amiable consort. “Well, anyhow, consider it open. Wild," observed the knight, contemptuously. 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. Everything is being done that can be. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all.
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