And that hurts. I am cut off from reading because
of my eyes, and from intercourse with people whose society would be a
pleasure because there are no such people here. All this hurts, even
when you've grown used to it--a good thing in itself it is not. Many
times I have thought that we must have reached the very bottom of the
inclined plane of adversity, but always it proved to be only a break.
The deepest deep was still to come. You work on even when your head
feels like to split; you save up every pin, every match; and yet the
bread you eat often tastes of charity. That hurts. You give up hoping
that things may be better some day; you give up all hope, all dreams,
all faith, all illusions--surely you have come to the end of all things.
But no; the very roots of one's being are still left; the most precious
thing of all is still left. What can that be, you ask?
That is what I was going to tell you.
The thing that happened came just when things were beginning to look
a little brighter for us. For some time past my head had been less
troublesome, and I had got to work on a new harrow--steel again; it
never lets one rest--and you know what endless possibilities a man sees
in a thing like that. Merle was working with fresh courage. What do you
think of a wife like that? taking up the cross of her own free will, to
go on sharing the life of a ruined man? I hope you may meet a woman of
her sort one day. True, her hair is growing grey, and her face lined.
Pages:
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262