and feel their emotions. But, if we could look into the bosoms of
those we meet daily, and read there the hopes and fears that excite
or depress, we should perceive all around us living histories of
human passion and emotion that would awaken up our most active
sympathies. All this, however, is hidden from our eyes. And it is
only, in most instances, when the present becomes the past, that we
are permitted to lift the veil, and look at the reality beneath."

We were sitting near a window overlooking one of the principal
streets of our city, and a slight noise without, at this time,
attracted our attention.

"There she is again. Poor Flora! How my heart aches for you!" my
companion suddenly ejaculated, in a tone of deep sympathy, after
gazing into the street for a moment or two.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Do you see that poor creature, slowly moving along just opposite?"

"Yes."

"Twenty years ago, there was not a gayer girl in the city; nor one
more truly beloved by all."

"She?"

"Yes. Nor one of fairer hopes."

"Hope has indeed sadly mocked her!" said I, giving almost