She was sorry to find Ramage a little disposed to be melancholy. . “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. If ever she felt fatigue in these long tramps which had already taken her half over London, she never admitted it. 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 has chances?” he said, helping her out. Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. And on Monday and Tuesday she had failed to find him here.
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