"I hear you plotting with your wicked associates," cried Mrs. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. I think I know where I am puzzling you now——” “Then for Heaven’s sake be merciful,” he exclaimed. It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. It was late before Jonathan ventured to his own house, where he remained up all night, and kept his janizaries and other assistants well armed.
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