She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. 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. She turned to face him and he kissed her. Your attitude to me—” He fell into a brown study. "'You've a long journey before you. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. ” She replied. May we not repeat them once, at any rate, in London? “Ever yours, “NIGEL ENNISON. So kind, so good to me always.
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