Instead he had chosen exhausting labor and stern self-denial in the wilds.

The life had some compensations, but they were not very obvious then.

It was, however, too late for regrets; he had chosen and must be content, and putting down the newspaper he was trying to read, he went to bed.
Two days later he sat in the garden of a new summer hotel on the shore of Lake Huron.

A pine forest rolled down to the water past the pretty wooden building, and the air in the shade was cool and sweet with resinous smells.

The lake glittered, smooth as glass, in the hot sun, but here and there a wandering breeze traced a dark-blue line across the placid surface.