It is in the night-time that
thought is terrible. For months past, ever since I was ill in the
spring, the foreshadow of failure has loomed dark and close upon me like
a suffocating weight--what I must do; how I must live without being a
tax on my father, if I am to live; what he and my mother would feel;
what old friends would say; who could or would help me to some harmless
occupation; and whether I should not, for everybody's sake, be better
out of the world."
"Oh, Harry, but that was faint-hearted!" said Bessie with a touch of
reproach. "You forgot me, then?"
"I have had several strokes of bad luck lately, or perhaps I ought to
suspect that not being in good case my work was weak. Manuscript after
manuscript has been returned on my hands. Surely this was discouraging.
There on the table is a roll of which I had better hopes, and I found it
awaiting me here."
"May I take it to Fairfield and read it?" Bessie asked. "It is as big as
a book."
"Yes; if it were printed and bound it would be a book. Read it, and let
me know how it impresses you."
Bessie looked mightily glad. "If you will let me help you, Harry, you
will make me happy," said she. "What is it about?"
"It is a story, for your comfort--a true story. I could not devise a
plot, so I fell back on a series of pathetic facts. Life is very sad,
Bessie. Why are we so fond of it?"
"We take it in detail, as we take the hours of the day and the days of
the year, and it is very endurable.
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