days--it was full of her. Or if he looked at the College, he knew every
one of the steps, and the entrance, and the tall windows of the
lecture-rooms, where he had taught so contentedly, year after year, till
the terrible Motor had taken possession of him, the thing that was
driving him mad; and, strangely enough, what hurt him most and brought
drops of perspiration to his forehead was the National Bank in Main
Street; it made him remember his debt, and that he had no money at
all--nothing whatsoever but the few dollars in his pocket left after
paying the bills on the first of the month.

"It's of no use!" he cried, suddenly rising and turning away. "I cannot
stand it. I'm sorry, but it's too awful!"

Never before had he felt so thoroughly ashamed of himself. He was
breaking down before his son, to whom he knew he ought to be setting an
example of fortitude and common sense. He had forgotten the very names
of such qualities; the mere thought of Hope, whenever it crossed his
mind, mocked him maddeningly, and he hated the little City for the name
he had given it. Hope was his enemy since she had left him, and he was
hers; he could have found it in his heart to crush the poor little paper
town to pieces, and then to split up the very board itself for firewood.

The years that had been so full of belief were all at once empty, and
the memory of them rang hollow and false, because Hope had cheated him,
luring him on, only to forsake him at the great moment. Every hour he
had spent on the work had been misspent; he saw it all now, and the most
perfect of his faultless calculations only proved that science was a
blatant fraud and a snare that had cost him all he had, his wife, his
boy's future, and his own self-respect. How could he ever look at his
wretched failure again? How could he sit down opposite the son he had