Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. “It’s my fault. “We suspect that Mary is alive, and we think she will try to contact you if she ever tracks you down. ” “They’ll find out. But they cut it all off. 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. As his eyes adjusted, he was able to make out the great shrouded shapes of the furniture.
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