book one. smoke
I. The Hesitating Step
To have reared a towering scheme Of happiness, and to behold it razed, Were nothing: all men hope, and see their hopes Frustrate, and grieve awhile, and hope anew； But-- A Blot in the ‘Scutcheon.
The moon rode high； but ominous clouds were rushing towards it--clouds heavy with snow. I watched these clouds as I drove recklessly, desperately, over the winter roads. I had just missed the desire of my life, the one precious treasure which I coveted with my whole undisciplined heart, and not being what you call a man of self-restraint, I was chafed by my defeat far beyond the bounds I have usually set for myself.

The moon--with the wild skurry of clouds hastening to blot it out of sight--seemed to mirror the chaos threatening my better impulses； and, idly keeping it in view, I rode on, hardly conscious of my course till the rapid recurrence of several well-known landmarks warned me that I had taken the longest route home

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