You take them. She dressed rapidly and left the theatre without a word to any one. A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. 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. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. He moved to one side, bowing and gesturing to the door. "A hundred pounds!" exclaimed Shotbolt. He handed Ruth a letter. "I have hurt you because I would not trust you. Her eyes noted it mercilessly.
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