With this view, he hurried to the spot where he had left the post-chaise, and found it drawn up at the road-side, the postilion dismounted, and in charge of a couple of farming-men. A feeling of inexplicable awe crept over the carpenter as the sounds died away. 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. "Take me, then," replied the widow. Ireton will do no such thing," replied the head-turnkey. The man lingered. I once might have married you for your beauty,—now I marry you for your wealth. ’ He smiled down at her. The militia offered little in the way of relief.
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