uch a fate as this, when Godfrey Hammond
or Mrs. Middleton, or even old Hardwicke, would no doubt have helped him
to something better.

Certainly he had been a fool; and yet, while he realized this truth, he
sincerely respected--I might almost say he admired--his own folly. He
had been sick of dependence, and he had gone down at once to the bottom
of everything, taken his stand on firm ground and conquered independence
for himself. He had gained the precious knowledge that he could earn his
own living by the labor of his hands. He might have been a fool to
reject the help that would have opened some higher and less distasteful
career to him, yet if he had accepted it he would never have known the
extent of his own powers. He would have been a hermit-crab still, fitted
with another shell by the kindness of his friends. Had he clearly
understood what he was doing when he went to Brenthill, it was very
likely that he might never have gone. He was almost glad that he had not
understood.

And now, having conquered in the race, could he go back and ask for the
help which he had once refused? Hardly. The life in which we first gain
independence may be stern and ugly, the independence itself--when we
gather in our harvest--may have a rough and bitter taste, yet it will
spoil the palate for all other flavors. They will seem sickly sweet
after its wholesome austerity. Neither did Percival feel any greater
desire for a career of any kind than he had felt a year earlier when he
talked over his future life with Godfrey Hammond. If he were asked what
was his day-dream, his castle in the air, the utmost limit of his
earthly wishes, he would answer now as he would have answered then,
"Brackenhill," dismissing the impossible idea with a smile even as he
uttered it. Asked what would content him--since we can hardly hope to
draw the highest prize in our life's lottery--he would answer now as
then--to have an assured income sufficient to allow him to wander on the
Continent, to see pictures, old towns, Alps, rivers, blue sky;
wandering, to remain a foreigner all his life, so that there might
always be something a little novel and curious about his food and his
manner of living (things which are apt to grow so hideously commonplace
in the land where one is born), to drink the wine of the country, to
read many poems in verse, in prose, in the scenery around; and through
it all, from first to last, to "dream deliciously."

And yet, even wh