There was no
likelihood of his leaving the cottage, that day; and, inside the cottage
with his man to look out for him, Thayer felt that he was beyond the
possibility of danger. It was seven weeks since they had buried
themselves in that wilderness, seven weeks that Thayer had voluntarily
kept himself under the daily and hourly strain of constant intimate
association with the woman he loved, of knowing that she gained
strength and courage from her reliance upon him, and of forcing himself
to treat her with an offhand good-fellowship which defied analysis for
the mere reason that it challenged none.

A weaker man than Thayer would have yielded to the strain, or else have
grown fretful under its chafing. Thayer did neither. He felt the
chafing, galling burden which he bore; but he kept the scars out of
sight of others, and moreover, he conscientiously refrained from looking
at them, himself. Self-pity is the surest, yet the most insidious foe to
self-poise. When the original Cotton Mather Thayer had stuck a splinter
of wood into the palm of his hand, he had pulled out the splinter with
his teeth and then, punching his hand into his pocket, he had continued
his discussion of the latest election to the General Court. His namesake
was proving himself true to the traditions of his blood.

Twice only had Thayer sought outlet for his mood. Twice the almost
deserted hotel had vibrated with such singing as it was destined never
to have heard, before or since. The piano was passable and, shut up
alone in the barren parlor, Thayer had sung to the empty chairs as he
had never yet sung to any crowded audience. Out in the halls, the
people of the house gathered in listening, whispering groups; but Thayer
never heeded them. It is not certain that, heeding, he would have cared.
Relief he must have at any cost, and this was the one means at his
command. His own voice, laden with passionate sadness, came echoing back
to him from the unresponsive walls, and in time the echo checked his
outcry. It taught him anew the lesson which already he had conned again
and again, the lesson that his bitterest plaint fell on no one else's
ears with half the compelling fervor with which it reached his own, that
his cry for help came beaten back to the one person who could help him,
that was--himself. But at least, there was some relief in having made
his cry.

He had never allowed himself to regret his answer to the impresario. Day
by day, he realize