At every step he seemed to be haunted by the ghost of the past. Above her head was an aura of white fire. 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. She thought that women were not made for the struggle and turmoil of life— their place was the little world, the home; that their power lay not in votes but in influence over men and in making the minds of their children fine and splendid. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere. Kneebone and his friends would be glad of a little refreshment. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. For heaven’s sake, give him some Madeira or something, Gerald! Anything to calm him down.
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