Wood,—Winifred fainted in the arms of a female attendant,—and Wood standing beside them almost in a state of distraction. ‘He’d have been that happy if he’d known how you’re the spit of her, miss. She reached the station, and mingling with a crowd of excursionists who had come from the river on the other side, took her place in the train unnoticed. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. 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. You can do anything you please. ’ The smile vanished.
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