"That is so," said Harry, with a slight sigh.

Lately it had seemed harder than ever before for him to start early
in the black winter mornings and hurry for his train. Then, too, he
had what he had never had before, a sense of boredom, of ennui, so
intense that it was almost a pain. The deadly monotony of it wearied
him. For the first time in his life his harness of duty chafed his
spirit. He was so tired of seeing the same train, the same commuters,
taking the same path across the station to the ferry-boat, being
jostled by the same throng, going to the same office, performing the
same, or practically the same, duties, that his very soul was
irritated. He had reached a point where he not only needed but
demanded a change, but the change was as impossible, without
destruction, as for a planet to leave its orbit.

Ida saw the deepening of the frown on his forehead and the
lengthening of the lines around his mouth.

"Poor old man!" said she. "I wish I had a fortune to give you, so you
wouldn't have to go."

The words were fairly cooing, but the tone was still harsh. However,
Harry brightened. He regarded this lovely, blooming creature and
inhaled again the odor of dinner, and reflected with a sense of
gratitude upon his mercies. Harry had a grateful heart, and was
always ready to blame himself.

"Oh, I should be lost, go all to pieces, if I quit work," he said,
laughing. "If I were left a fortune, I should land in an insane