I Consented For A Few Days To The Terms Of
The Belligerents.
I rested.
But resting, I was restless. Unfit to work, I was tormented
by an unnatural desire for action. Thus I roused myself early - rode to
the office (for I was too weak to walk), buried myself amidst my
letters, reports and accounts - and rushed on with the day's duties as
if all the work of the world had to be done in that one day, and that
one day was the last. But an hour or two usually settled the contest.
Head swam, heart beat, fluttered, stopped, struggled, - knees knocked
together, - and out oozed that cold clammy sweat which reminds one of
weakness and the grave. So with a pale face, anxious eye, and hollow
cheek, I had to quit the desk again and ride mournfully home, the
remainder of the day being consumed in a rest, which only increased my
melancholy feelings, because it made me more than ever conscious of my
feebleness and excitability.
"But by great care and management of myself, by desperate strivings to
get a little health, I did improve. Two hours a day at work, two
or three times a week, became two or three hours every working day of
the week. Then, as a wonderful achievement, at last I managed to endure
half a day's business at a time. And at the end of some months (one
beautiful day in August, bless the sunlight) I actually did a
whole day's work!
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