I met a Hindu a few weeks ago who was a Harvard man. When, by slow and toilsome efforts, he had arrived midway, something obstructed his further progress. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. She hunted the markets for bread and treats so they could feast during the day. And in these crowded four weeks, what had she learned? That all horizons were lies: that smiles and handshakes and goodbyes and welcomes were lies: that there were really no to-morrows, only a treadmill of to-days: and that out of these lies and mirages she had plucked a bitter truth—she was alone. " "Fill your glasses, gentlemen," observed Ireton, "and I'll tell you a droll thing Jack said this morning. “Her husband was a county councillor, and she has a niece who comes to see her in a carriage.
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