Her state of mind would have seemed altogether discreditable to her grandmother. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. I bent over him. Kneebone said, just now. He was now as civil as he had just been insolent. 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. "Not as I loved mine. A pity you did not think to tell me that part of the tale at the outset.
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