Yet Henry Ware never murmured, though his soul was full of black bitterness.

Often he would resolutely turn his eyes from the forest where he knew the deep cool pools were, and keep them on the sun-baked field.

His rifle, which had seemed to reproach him, inanimate object though it was, he hid in a corner of the house where he could not see it and its temptation.

In order to create a counter-irritant he plunged into work with the most astonishing vigor.
John Ware, in those days, was full of pride and satisfaction, he rejoiced in the industrial prowess of his son, and he felt that his own influence had prevailed, he had led Henry back to the ways of civilization, the only right ways, and he enjoyed his triumph.

But the schoolmaster, in secret, often shook his head.
The summer grew drier and hotter, it was a period of drought again and the little children gasped through the sweating nights.