Now he had opportunity, but it was too late.
He could not become as interested in a book as he had been during the few moments he had been able to snatch from his old routine of toil.
Some days it seemed to Henry that he must go back to the shop, that he could not live in this way.

He had begun to lose all interest in what he had anticipated with much pleasure--the raising of grass on Abrahama White's celebrated land.

He felt that he knew nothing about such work, that agriculture was not for him.

If only he could stand again at his bench in the shop, and cut leather into regular shapes, he felt that while his hands toiled involuntarily his mind could work.

Some days he fairly longed so for the old familiar odor of tanned hides, that odor which he had once thought sickened him, that he would go to the shop and stand by the open door, and inhale the warm rush of leather-scented air with keen relish.