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 had never before heard the noise of firecrackers, and in the beginning the sputtering racket caused her to wince. Instead, her husband was probably wise. She walked through the walls. She had lost her sense of direction, and was among unfamiliar streets. “Never heard anything of it. She says to be home by one AM. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face. “My dear Anna,” he answered. This salute of his—actually the first she could remember—while it did not disturb her, began to lead her thoughts into new channels of speculation.
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