Redmond Maynard stood at the dining-room window gazing at the deep-dyed reflection upon the snow of the blood-red setting sun. The leafless trees, with their gnarled trunks and gaunt, twisted branches, spreading fiercely in imprecation at the hardness of their lot, resembled giant monsters from an unknown world. These diseased protruding growths put on all manner of fantastic shapes, as his eyes dwelt first upon one, then upon another. It was the shortening winter's day drawing near a close, and a spirit of melancholy brooded over the landscape. On such an evening as this, the thoughts of thinking men are apt to draw comparisons which bring vividly before them the uncertainty of life, and th…
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