To watch a wife’s face fade, despite her courage, poverty and sorrow bringing weariness to the serenest eyes.
To know that drudgery burdens the dear life of the home.
To watch the lapsing of a child from sheer health into sickness, the beautiful aliveness vanishing, the bloom marred like the bloom on handled fruit.
The consciousness of dependence and obligation, the receiving of brusque instructions from a man of cheap and vulgar fibre.
Sordid surroundings, sordid neighbors, an utter dearth of friends.
Work, eternal work, day in, day out; no Sabbath rest, no time for home life, no money to give joy to those most dear.
A vivid ghost past following, like a shadow.
A dim and unflattering future before the eyes, a future darkened by the prophetic dread of leaving wife and children alone in a selfish world.
Such were the realities that filled James Murchison’s sphere of consciousness, realities that were responsible for many a sleepless night.