His unselfishness made it easy for his wife, when she deemed a change and rest essential, to make the excuse that _she_ needed it.

After a preliminary protest he would usually give in, and they would leave Peterboro for a few days' excursion.
He knew discouragement in an extreme form.

Many weeks, even months, had to pass before his discontent over the last child of his imagination would become normal.

Particularly was this so with the larger works; though each one was started in a fever of inspiration, a longing to reduce to actual form the impossible.

He was always disheartened when a work was finished, but he was too sane in his judgment not to have moments when he could estimate fairly the quality of what he had written.