. ’ Melusine’s instant annoyance must have shown in her face. Don’t you know I disinherited the rogue?’ ‘This we knew, milor’,’ said Valade. 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. The second look told me I was wrong. ’ ‘Dieu du ciel! But this is catastrophe. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her.
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