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. " "Bless you! bless you!" cried Mrs. " "Miscreants!" cried Sheppard, almost driven frantic by the violence of his emotions; "you're all in league with him. It needs cultivating, I think. Serjeant Raby, it was decided that it must be proved in a regular and judicial manner that Sheppard was the identical person who had been convicted and had escaped, before a fresh order could be made for his execution; and that the matter must, therefore, stand over until the next sessions, to be held at the Old Bailey in October, when it could be brought before the court. She sat down awkwardly and helplessly on one of the little stools by her table and covered her face with her hands. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. " "It matters not. Entering the house, he found himself in a narrow passage leading to the back stairs. Her dainty shoes were soiled with dust and there was a great tear in her skirt. "Don't exchange glances with him under my very nose, woman!" shrieked Mrs. She slipped silently inside the door as he went inside a 12 putrid little bathroom to urinate. To-morrow he might be sorry; but to-day, this hour! She rose, not quickly, but with a dignity which only accentuated her beauty. 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.
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