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“It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. ” Mr. ‘Now,’ she said, in an imperious manner that so much reminded him of Melusine that he was obliged to suppress a grin, ‘I can see you properly. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. Half French. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. ” “Well?” “Lunch! I am hungry—tragically hungry. ‘But I have told you. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. 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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