“To-night we are as we have always been. “I find it very hard to write this letter. “I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. “She seems an unusually clever girl,” said Ramage. ’ ‘You traitor, Gerald,’ laughed Lucilla, her yellow curls bouncing under a huge straw bonnet all over flowers. 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. He often wanted only to drive with her in the car, both of them staring at the scenery in silence for hours.
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