“Do you think he’s still around?” She paused thoughtfully. The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. See what you have made of me. 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. “It may be true, but it isn’t quite what I have in mind. Quickly he compared the Hs. “Oh! I wish,” she said, “that people thought alike about these things. “Perhaps that is only sleeping,” he said. From time to time she would come upon a line of singular beauty or a paragraph full of haunting music; and these would send her rushing on for something that never happened.
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