There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. His eyes were fixed upon her face, but he opened his lips twice before he spoke. 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. Steeples toppled, and towers reeled beneath its fury. . This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. Birthdays just ain’t the same once you get old kiddo. Natives are queer. “Yes?” he said. “What made you think” he said, abruptly, with the gleam of avidity in his face, “that love makes people happy?” “I know it must. CHAPTER I.
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