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never to return. He had already forgotten both this
and every other attempt. His conscience was sunk
once more in its twelve-month sleep.
A gifted man was Squire Julius, light-footed in
the dance, the life of the card-table; pen, brush, and
fiddle-bow he wielded with equal facility. He had
a heart easily moved, fair words on his tongue, and
a throat full of song. But what would all that have
availed him, if he had not possessed a conscience,
though it stirred but once a year, like the
dragonfly, which frees itself from the gloomy depths and
takes wing only to llve for a few hours in the light
of day and effulgence of the sun.
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