chance of its bearing aught of resemblance to this present world, I had
far fainer there were none.

With all due deference to Shakespeare--and I suppose that even the one
supreme genius of all time must, in his day, have made a mistake or
two--I have but faint belief in the "sweet uses of adversity." I think
that they are about as mythical as the jewels in the toad's ugly skull,
to which he likened them. It is in _prosperity_ that one looks up, with
leaping heart and clear eyes, and through the clouds see God sitting
throned in light. In adversity one sees nothing but one's own dunghill
and boils.

At least such has been my experience. I think I could have borne it
better if I had not looked forward to his return so much--if he had been
an austere and bitter tyrant, to _whose coming_ I had looked with dread,
I could have braced my nerves and pulled myself together, to face with
some stoutness the hourly trials of life. But when one has counted the
days, hours, and moments, till some high festival, and, when it comes,
it turns out a drear, black funeral, one cannot meet the changed
circumstances with any great fortitude.

It is the horrible contrast between my dreams and their realization that
gives the keenest poignancy to my pangs.

To his return I had referred the smoothing of all my difficulties, the
clearing up of all my doubts, the sweeping of all clouds from my sky;
and now he is back! and, oh, how far, _far_ gloomier than ever is my
weather! What a sullen leaden sky overhangs me!

I never tell him about Algy after all! I do not often laugh now; but I
_did_ laugh loudly and long the other day, although I was quite alone,
when I thought of my wily purpose of setting Roger on his guard against
Mrs. Huntley's little sugared unveracities.

No, I never tell him about Algy! Why should I? it would be wasted
breath--spent words. He would not believe me. In the more important case
has not he taken her word in preference to mine? Would not he in _this_
too? For I know that he knows, as well as I know it myself, that in that
matter I lied.

Sometimes, when I am by myself, a mighty yearning--a most constraining
longing seizes me to go to him--fall at his feet, and tell him the truth
even yet. After all, God knows that I have no ugly fault to confess to
him--no infidelity even of thought. But as soon as I am in his presence
the desire fades; or at least the power to put it in practice melts
away. For he never gives me