Saturday morning found me feverish, unrefreshed, and more painfully
conscious than ever that I was becoming little better than the presses
on which the paper was printed. Depression inevitably follows
weariness and exhaustion, and one could scarcely take a more gloomy
view of himself than I did.

"I will escape from this city as if it were Sodom," I muttered, "and a
June day in the country will reveal whether I have a soul for anything
beyond the wrangle of politics and the world's gossip."

In my despondency I was inclined to be reckless, and after merely
writing a brief note to my editorial chief, saying that I had broken
down and was going to the country, I started almost at random. After a
few hours' riding I wearied of the cars, and left them at a small
village whose name I did not care to inquire. The mountains and
scenery pleased me, although the day was overcast like my mind and
fortunes. Having found a quiet inn and gone through the form of a
dinner, I sat down on the porch in dreary apathy.

The afternoon aspect of the village street seemed as dull and devoid
of interest as my own life at that hour, and in fancy I saw myself, a
broken-down man, lounging away days that would be like eternities,
going through my little round like a bit of driftwood, slowly circling
in an eddy of the world's great current. With lack-lustre eyes I
"looked up to the hills," but no "help" came from them. The air was
close, the sky leaden; even the birds would not sing. Why had I come
to the country? It had no voices for me, and I resolved to return to
the city. But while I waited my eyes grew heavy with the blessed power
to sleep--a boon, for which I then felt that I would travel to the