The Captain might do what he pleased now; she would never come
again.
But if she did, what then? She was born to her fate, no doubt. Husband and
wife had tried to patch up the damage, but had failed. I remember her as
she was six or seven years back. She found life dull, and fell in love a
trifle here and there perhaps, even then, but she was faithful and
delicate-minded. And time went on. She had no occupation, but had three
maid-servants to her house; she had no children, but she had a piano. But
she had no children.
And Life can afford to waste.
Mother and child it was that went down.
EPILOGUE
A wanderer plays with muted strings when he comes to fifty years. Then he
plays with muted strings.
Or I might put it in this way.
If he comes too late for the harvest of berries in autumn, why, he is come
too late, that is all; and if one fine day he finds he can no longer be
gay and laugh all over his face in delight of life, 'tis because he is
old, no doubt; blame him not for that! And there can be no doubt that it
requires a certain vacuity of mind to go about feeling permanently
contented with oneself and all else.
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