Strange that it is the little races who wander farthest and yet have the eternal home-sickness! And yet not strange, for to the little peoples, their land, bare and uncouth and unfriendly for the needs of life, must be more the ideal, the dream, than the satisfaction.

The lush countries give corn and wine for their folks, the little bare places afford no more than a spiritual heritage.

Yet spiritual it is, and for two men who in the moment of their extremity will think on meadow, woodland, or placid village, a score will figure the windy hill, the grey lochan, and the mournful sea.
For the moment he felt a self-pity which he cast from him.

To this degradation at least he should never come.

But as the thought of Alice came up ever and again, his longing for her seemed to be changed from hot pain to a chastened regret.