" "So am I. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. “You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry. ‘You’re right. He saw the tragedy on the boy's face; but he was merciless. ” “Oh, okay. " "They know. “It was perhaps my fault. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man. “I have come to tell you this. 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. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Why? Because she knew him in life, because, so long as she could remember, he had crossed and recrossed her vision—Sidney Carton. "Hold hard," cried he, addressing the waterman; "I'll give the gentleman a lift. A nine days’ wonder is soon forgotten.
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