Book Two The Woman - Chapter 37 The Preacher

It is a wise and (to some extent) a true saying, that hard work
is an antidote to sorrow, a panacea for all trouble; but when the
labor is over and done, when the tools are set by, and the weary
worker goes forth into the quiet evening--how then? For we
cannot always work, and, sooner or later, comes the still hour
when Memory rushes in upon us again, and Sorrow and Remorse sit,
dark and gloomy, on either hand.

A week dragged by, a season of alternate hope and black despair,
a restless fever of nights and days, for with each dawn came
hope, that lived awhile beside me, only to fly away with the sun,
and leave me to despair.

I hungered for the sound of Charmian's voice, for the quick,
light fall of her foot, for the least touch of her hand. I
became more and more possessed of a morbid fancy that she might
be existing near by--could I but find her; that she had passed
along the road only a little while before me, or, at this very
moment, might be approaching, might be within sight, were I but
quick enough.

Often at such times I would fling down my hammer or tongs, to
George's surprise, and, hurrying to the door, stare up and down
the road; or pause in my hammerstrokes, fiercely bidding George
do the same, fancying I heard her voice calling to me from a
distance. And George would watch me with a troubled brow but,
with a rare delicacy, say no word.