"And so you'll turn highwayman, will you, you young dog?" continued the carpenter, cuffing him soundly,—"rob the mails, like Jack Hall, I suppose. She stood there limply and did not act to resist him. "Restore it," he cried, in an authoritative voice. 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. Then she saw the bodies piled in the corner. This time there wasn't any doubt. “Look after her! Why not? But you have done it all your life. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me. I am sure I never enjoyed so much popularity in my life. However, if I've lost one servant, I've gained another, that's one comfort. "I will have it now," rejoined Trenchard, "or our agreement is void. ” He seemed bored.
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