With all due deference to Shakespeare--and I suppose that even the one supreme genius of all time must, in his day, have made a mistake or two--I have but faint belief in the "sweet uses of adversity." I think that they are about as mythical as the jewels in the toad's ugly skull, to which he likened them. It is in _prosperity_ that one looks up, with leaping heart and clear eyes, and through the clouds see God sitting throned in light. In adversity one sees nothing but one's own dunghill and boils. At least such has been my experience. I think I could have borne it better if I had not looked forward to his return so much--if he had been an austere and bitter tyrant, to _whose coming_ I had looked with dread, I could have braced my nerves and pulled myself together, to face with some stoutness the hourly trials of life. But when one has counted the days, hours, and moments, till some high festival, and, when it comes, it turns out a drear, black funeral, one cannot meet the changed circumstances with any great fortitude. It is the horrible contrast between my dreams and their realization that gives the keenest poignancy to my pangs. To his return I had referred the smoothing of all my difficulties, the clearing up of all my doubts, the sweeping of all clouds from my sky; and now he is back! and, oh, how far, _far_ gloomier than ever is my weather! What a sullen leaden sky overhangs me! I never tell him about Algy after all! I do not often laugh now; but I _did_ laugh loudly and long the other day, although I was quite alone, when I thought of my wily purpose of setting Roger on his guard against Mrs. Huntley's little sugared unveracities. No, I never tell him about Algy! Why should I? it would be wasted breath--spent words. He would not believe me. In the more important case has not he taken her word in preference to mine? Would not he in _this_ too? For I know that he knows, as well as I know it myself, that in that matter I lied.