"I was not speaking of myself," Nathaniel told him, hopelessly.

There was really no doubt that the poor, gentle mind had staggered
under the weight of hope; but it was hardly more than a deepening of
old vagueness, an intensity of absorbed thought upon unpractical
things. The line between sanity and insanity is sometimes a very faint
one; no one can quite dare to say just when it has been crossed. But
this mild creature had crossed it somewhere in the beginning of his
certainty that he was going to give the world the means of seeing the
unseen. That this great gift should be flung into oblivion, all for
the want, as he believed, of a little time, broke his poor heart. When
Lizzie Graham came to see him, she found him sitting in his twilight,
his elbows on his knees, his head in his long, thin hands. On one
hollow cheek there was a glistening wet streak. He put up a forlornly
trembling hand and wiped it away when he heard her voice.

"Yes; yes, I do recognize it, ma'am," he said; "I can tell voices
better than I used to be able to tell faces. You are Jim Graham's
wife? Yes; yes, Lizzie Graham. Have you heard about me, Lizzie? I am
not going to finish my machine. I am to be sent to the Farm."

"Yes, I heard," she said.

They were in the big, bare office of the hotel. The August sunshine
lay dim upon the dingy window-panes; the walls, stained by years of
smoke and grime, were hidden by yellowing advertisements of reapers
and horse liniments; in the centre was a dirty iron stove. A poor,
gaunt room, but a haven to Nathaniel May, awaiting the end of hope.