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I wonder, Ann Veronica, if, when our time comes, we shall be any wiser?” Ann Veronica watched a water-beetle fussing across the green depths. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. “Not for these things, O Ann Veronica, have you revolted,” it said; “and this is not your appropriate purpose. Ha! ha! What have I left but despair and madness? Promise me one thing, Mr.
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