The blow that Rowland Sefton's dishonesty had inflicted upon him had paralyzed his heart--that most miserable of all kinds of paralysis.

He could still go about, handle his tools, set his thin old fingers to work; but as soon as he had put a few marks upon his block of oak his heart died with him, and he threw down his useless tools with a sob as bitter as ever broke from an old man's lips.
There was no relief for him, as for other men, in speech easily, perhaps hastily uttered, in companionship with his fellows.

Any solace of this kind was too difficult and too deliberate for him to seek it in writing his lamentations on a slate or spelling them off on his fingers, but his grief and anger struck inward more deeply.
Phebe saw his sorrow, and would have cheered him if she could; but she, too, was sorely stricken, and she was young.

She tried to set him an example of diligent work, and placed her easel beside his carving, painting as long as the gray and fleeting daylight permitted.

Now and then she attempted to sing some of her old merry songs, knowing that his watchful eyes would see the movement of her lips; but though her lips moved, her face was sad and her heart heavy.