There was a beginning indeed, but end there can be none.
Such a man was the Wanderer, as he paced the deserted street in the cruel, gloomy cold of the late day.

Between his sight and the star of his own hope an impenetrable shadow had arisen, so that he saw it no more.

The memory of Beatrice was more than ever distinct to his inner sense, but the sudden presentiment of her death, real in its working as any certainty, had taken the reality of her from the ground on which he stood.

For that one link had still been between them.

Somewhere, near or far, during all these years, she, too, had trodden the earth with her light footsteps, the same universal mother earth on which they both moved and lived.