The Magdalene. One doesn’t go about with these passions allayed simply because they have made wreckage and a scandal. It was Ramage, the occupant of the big house at the end of the Avenue. " "Let me see it," cried Thames, snatching it from him. “I wonder!” said Miss Stanley. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. 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. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. " But the doctor softened the refusal by smiling.
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