I hope she'll get a little nap." That was after dinner, when the house had been set in order, and Sylvia was at one front window in the cool sitting-room, with a basket of mending, and Henry at another with a library book.

Henry was very restless in these days.

He pottered about the place and was planning to get in a good hay crop, but this desultory sort of employment did not take the place of his regular routine of toil.

He missed it horribly, almost as a man is said to miss a pain of long standing.

He knew that he was better off without it, that he ought to be happier, but he knew that he was not.
For years he had said bitterly that he had no opportunity for reading and improving his mind.