Adventures in Contentment

"I cannot get away: I cannot escape," and the veritable look of some trapped creature came into his eyes, fear so abject that I reached over and laid my hand on his arm: "Friend," I said, "stop here. We have a good country. You have travelled far enough. I know from experience what a cornfield will do for a man." "I have lived all sorts of life," he continued as if he had not heard a word I said, "and I have lived it all twice, and I am afraid." "Face it," I said, gripping his arm, longing for some power to "blow grit into him." "Face it!" he exclaimed, "don't you suppose I have tried. If I could do a thing--anything--a few times without thinking--once would be enough--I might be all right. I should be all right." He brought his fist down on the table, and there was a note of resolution in his voice. I moved my chair nearer to him, feeling as though I were saving an immortal soul from destruction. I told him of our life, how the quiet and the work of it would solve his problems. I sketched with enthusiasm my own experience and I planned swiftly how he could live, absorbed in simple work--and in books. "Try it," I said eagerly. "I will," he said, rising from the table, and grasping my hand. "I'll stay here." I had a peculiar thrill of exultation and triumph. I know how the priest must feel, having won a soul from torment!