"Don't do that rashly, Harry. There can be no spot in the world in which you can be so useful as you are here."
"All my usefulness has been dragged out of me. I don't care about the place or about the people. I am ill already, and shall become worse. I think I will go abroad for four or five years. I've an idea I shall go to the States."
"You'll become tired of that, I should think."
"Of course I shall. Everything is tiresome to me. I don't think anything else can be so tiresome as my uncle, and yet I dread his leaving me,—when I shall be alone. I suppose if one was out among the Rocky Mountains, one wouldn't think so much about it."
"Atra Cura sits behind the horseman," said the Vicar. "I don't know that travelling will do it. One thing certainly will do it."
"And what is that?"
"Hard work. Some doctor told his patient that if he'd live on half-a-crown a day and earn it, he'd soon be well. I'm sure that the same prescription holds good for all maladies of the mind. You can't earn the half-crown a day, but you may work as hard as though you did."
"What shall I do?"
"Read, dig, shoot, look after the farm, and say your prayers. Don't allow yourself time for thinking."
"It's a fine philosophy," said Gilmore, "but I don't think any man ever made himself happy by it. I'll leave you now."