But he wrote as if he were on the top of his form and kept commiserating me on the discomforts of my job.

The picture of that patient, gentle old fellow, hobbling about his compound and puzzling over his _Pilgrim's Progress_, a cripple for life after five months of blazing glory, would have stiffened the back of a jellyfish.
This last letter was horribly touching, for summer had come and the smell of the woods behind his prison reminded Peter of a place in the Woodbush, and one could read in every sentence the ache of exile.

I sat on that stone wall and considered how trifling were the crumpled leaves in my bed of life compared with the thorns Peter and Blaikie had to lie on.

I thought of Sandy far off in Mesopotamia, and old Blenkiron groaning with dyspepsia somewhere in America, and I considered that they were the kind of fellows who did their jobs without complaining.
The result was that when I got up to go on I had recovered a manlier temper.

I wasn't going to shame my friends or pick and choose my duty.
I would trust myself to Providence, for, as Blenkiron used to say, Providence was all right if you gave him a chance.
It was not only Peter's letter that steadied and calmed me.