” “You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Brendon answered. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. In a few seconds, the shutter flew open,—then the window,—and they were in the room. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. A dreamy sense of content crept over him. It had neither succumbed to her nor wrathfully overwhelmed her. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. 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.
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