Yesterday this glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. Journeying blindly half way across the world, this man had found his quarry. But let that verse tell my secret. 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. You forget that every one is going to the ‘Unusual’ to see her. My father died a year ago, by the way. ” “There is great deal more,” she answered coldly. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. It isn’t what I have been but what I am. Her dress, it has just been said, was neatness and simplicity itself.
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