Mr. A. himself does not care to be seen under
circumstances which might imply acquaintance. But what does Miss F. care
for this? She is brilliant, and admired by plenty of people,--such as
they are. And yet do you know that I question whether, at times, when
she sits alone in that boudoir, and thinks how her old friend Mrs.
Grundy gives her the cut direct, how the companions of her innocent
youth all look coldly and sternly on her, how that costly mirror tells
her that her beauty is beginning to fade, the thought of the future does
not come over her like the rasp of an old saw under her white bosom? and
whether she does not ask herself if the play is worth the price of those
real wax candles? and whether they will shed light and cheer upon her as
they burn down, and she might not have been happier with tallow and
purity? Queen Mary must have put some such questions to herself in
Lochleven Castle; and Cleopatra never would have got that serpent for
the purpose she did, without some such thoughts. I imagine that St.
Helena must have known of long and wearisome calculations on the cost of
the game which ended there; and difficult must have been their
reconcilement to the price paid for the brilliant light which there died
out.

Look into that dark and dreary cell, my boy! There is a rough, coarse,
brutal man, pondering over his past life. He will be hung to-morrow.
Would you ever suppose that man was once a smooth-faced, bright little
fellow like you? Do you see any signs of a mother's tender caress on his
sullen brow? Does it look as though it had ever been held up close and
lovingly to a fond woman's heart? Are there any remains of that clear,
pure light which once looked out innocently from those bloodshot eyes?
All this was so once. What does he think of now? Is he acting over the
dark deed which brought him into this uninviting sleeping-place? Does he
see that silent chamber into which a guilty man is stealing, with crime
in his heart,--no, not in his heart; for he has none!--but in his
thoughts, and remorseless ferocity to execute it? Does he see the
gigantic shadows cast on the walls around by the miserable candle he
holds? the still face of the sleeper? and does he hear the smothered
groan and the bubbling sigh? Does he see in his hand the paltry metal
which he has secured, and hear his own hurried, flying steps? Or is he
counting the cost of that light which showed him where to strike? Is he
making that never-endi