Before there is any change, any real change, I shall be dead—dead—dead and finished—two hundred years!. Besides ——” She stopped short. " And he struck up the following ballad:— SAINT GILES'S BOWL. White will present her bill. The twenty pounds burned with avidity. The softly glittering summer stars! She saw them shining over mountains of snow, over valleys of haze and warm darkness. 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. There it is. “You do not quite understand,” she said gently. ” Mr. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. "Good bye!" cried Mrs.
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