and pass a white left hand through his short-cut mousey hair, while his
right caressed a far longer mustache, in which he seemed interested. A
certain indescribable heaviness and lack of light characterized his pale
face.

It was a lovely day in early June. The air was rather cold, but youth
and health care little about temperature on a holiday, with the sun
shining, and that sweetest sense--to such at least as are ordinarily
bound by routine--of having nothing to do. To many men and women the
greatest trouble is to choose, for self is the hardest of masters to
please; but as yet George Crawford had not been troubled with much
choosing.

A crowded town behind him, the loneliness he looked upon was a pleasure
to him. Compelled to spend time in it, without the sense of being on the
way out of it, his own company would soon have grown irksome to him; for
however much men may be interested in themselves, there are few indeed
who are interesting to themselves. Those only whose self is aware of a
higher presence can escape becoming bores and disgusts to themselves.
That every man is endlessly greater than what he calls himself, must
seem a paradox to the ignorant and dull, but a universe would be
impossible without it. George had not arrived at the discovery of this
fact, and yet was for the present contented both with himself and with
his circumstances.

The heather was not in bloom, and the few flowers of the heathy land
made no show. Brown and darker brown predominated, with here and there a
shadow of green; and, weary of his outlook, George was settling back to
his book, when there came a great bang and a tearing sound. He started
to his feet, and for hours knew nothing more. A truck had run off the