His thoughts were
far away now.
"I shall not come back, professor--perhaps it is better," she said.
There was a new tone in her voice, and the professor turned sharply.
Jane hesitated. Then he caught sight of a photograph lying among the
letters on the floor.
"That, too," he murmured. He stood and looked at it; Jane passed out
of the room.
Slowly and painfully the professor stooped down and gathered up his
wife's letters and his wife's photograph. He sat down in the big plush
chair by the fireside and thought for a long time. He was thinking of
an old quotation from some Sanskrit poem--"Every yesterday a dream of
happiness, every to-morrow a vision of hope--" That was all he could
remember, but his mind said it over and over. Well, his
yesterdays--the yesterdays of long ago--were dreams of happiness--he
had no visions; to-morrow offered him nothing. After a while he took
Mary's picture and looked at it. His dreams slowly settled to
earth--and he began to adjust his perspective. It was a long, long
time since he had even remembered--since the dream had been more than
a vague light shining through the mist.
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