lustier creatures.

Well, now he was himself of the halt and maimed--that was ironical,
wasn't it? Indeed he would much rather that he had pegged out
altogether--better for everybody--but, as things were, he would square
things out and see what he could make of it all. Then he saw as, every
day, he grew stronger, that he had no resources; everything in his other
life, as he now had come to think of it, had depended upon his physical
strength, every pleasure, every desire, every ambition had had to do
with his body--everything except Rachel.

In his other life half his happiness arose simply from the sense of his
physical movement, his consciousness that, as the rivers flowed and the
winds blew and the sun blazed, so did he also live and have his
being--And with all this, most intimately was his house mingled. That
grey building and he grew and moved and developed together; life could
never be very terrible for him so long as he had his place to come back
to, his place to care for, his fields and his gardens, his horses and
his dogs to look after. Now he could do nothing more for it--perhaps one
day he would be wheeled about its courts and paths, but oh! with what
pitying eyes would it look down upon him, how sorrowfully his gryphons
would greet him, with what memories they would confront him!

He could not bear now to look out upon the Downs on the little village
path--His bed was moved. A day arrived when he felt that it was all,
really, more than he could endure. He was in wild, furious rebellion,
surly, sometimes in raging tempers, sometimes sulking from day to day.
He cursed all the world. Even Christopher could do nothing with him--

Then upon this there followed a period of silence. He lay there and
beyond "Yes" and "No" would answer no one. His eyes stared at the wall.
Christopher feared at this time for his sanity.

Suddenly the silence was broken. He must go to London because he could
not endure the memories that this place thronged upon him--At the
beginning of March he was moved to the house in York Terrace.

II

The little house by the park helped him to construct his new life. The
normality that there was in Roddy, the same balance of common sense,
fostered his recovery. He was not going to die--Life would be an
infernal trouble were he always to be in rebellion against it--he must
simply make the best of the conditions. And then, after all, he had
Rachel. Rachel had been a heroine during this ti