” Anna shook hands with Brendon—a young man also, but older and more selfpossessed than Sydney Courtlaw. ’ ‘Ah, that was an affair altogether different,’ she explained and fluttered her long lashes at him. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. “You really couldn’t ride in it,” he said, deprecatingly. She must weigh her situation. Not daring, however, to listen to it, he ran on. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. There was no light in the room; but, notwithstanding this, the young man did not fail to detect the buxom figure of Mrs. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. She felt his tongue press into her mouth. If he got her outside, surely the soldiers would see her and intervene. "I wish to overtake Lady Trafford. Why should you wish to forget it? Unless it is that you did not enjoy it. Miss Garvice repeated again, and almost in the same words she used at every discussion, her contribution to the great question. 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.
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