Mere self-deception, of course.
The sun veiled itself, and hope was as far as ever.
Never before had he utterly lost the power of working.

In every struggle he had speedily overcome, and found in work the one unfailing resource.

If he were robbed of this, what stay had life for him henceforth?
He could not try to persuade himself that his suffering would pass, sooner or later, and time grant him convalescence; the blackness ahead was too profound.

He fell again into torpor, and let the days go as they would; he cared not.
But this morning brought him a letter.

At the first glance he was surprised by a handwriting which was not Elgar's; recollecting himself, he knew it for that of Mrs.Lessingham.
"DEAR MR.