" "You mustn't think of that, Mrs. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. Crossing them, he ascended an eminence, which, from its singular shape, seems to have been the site of a Roman encampment, and which commands a magnificent prospect. Old thoughts, old feelings, old faces, and old scenes have returned to me, and I have fancied myself happy,—as happy as I am now. His smile faded. " "There, now! You mustn't get mixed.
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