And the river became a sea.
“Life! It began with a sigh,
Grew with the leaves that are dead,
Its pleasures with wings to fly,
Its sorrows with wings of lead.”
Could one lift the impenetrable veil of mystery that hides the future from our curious eyes, what secrets would often be revealed, what shadows would fall upon hearts now light and thoughtless—shadows of grief, of horror, and despair!
“It is better not to know,” agree both the poets and sages.
Beautiful Cinthia Dawn did not think of that as she drummed upon the window-pane that rainy autumn day, exclaiming rebelliously:
“I wish something would happen to break up the dreadful monotony of my life.”
Widow Flint, who was her aunt and guardian, and as crabbed and crusty as her name, looked at her with dismay, and retorted: