Ruth crossed over to the dramatist of this tragicomedy and put a hand on his shoulder. She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian. “You have changed somehow—and you certainly are less friendly. 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 feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. I could tell it was Italian, you see. "My name is Ruth Enschede. Wood, "and I'll take care of Thames. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly.
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