So long as she stood beside him, the Hand would not prevail. 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. The man Hill has persecuted me for months—ever since I have been in England. You came to me, you wished me to speak to Anna. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. That’s the fact of the matter. There was a black fear in his heart. Yet she never once thought of changing it. At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. “What has she told you?” “Everything.
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