living. Henry was, in his heart of hearts, convinced that Horace
Allen, had he been rich, would have owned automobiles and spent hours
in the profitless work-play of the golf links. As it was, he played a
little after school-hours. How Henry hated golf! "I wish they had to
work," he would say, savagely, to Horace.

Horace would laugh, and say that he did work. "I know you do," Henry
would say, grudgingly, "and I suppose maybe a little exercise is good
for you; but those fellers from Alford who come over here don't have
to work, and as for Guy Lawson, the boss's son, he's a fool! He
couldn't earn his bread and butter to save his life, except on the
road digging like a common laborer. Playing golf! Playing! H'm!" Then
was the time for Horace's fresh cigar.

When Henry came in sight of the cottage where he lived he thought
with regret that Horace was not there. Being in a more pessimistic
mood than usual, he wished ardently for somebody to whom he could
pour out his heart. Sylvia was no satisfaction at such a time. If she
echoed him for a while, when she was more than usually worn with her
own work, she finally became alarmed, and took refuge in Scripture
quotations, and Henry was convinced that she offered up prayer for
him afterward, and that enraged him.

He struck into the narrow foot-path leading to the side door, the
foot-path which his unwilling and weary feet had helped to trace more
definitely for nearly forty years. The house was a small cottage of
the humblest New England type. It had a little cobbler's-shop, or
what had formerly been a cobbler's-shop, for an ell. Besides that,
there were three rooms on the ground-floor--the kitchen, the
sitting-room, and a little bedroom which Henry and Sylvia occupied.