And yet, all the time, Masterman's mind was slowly recovering its poise. His anger still burned, but it was now with smouldering rather than with active flame. His boastfulness declined. There were moments, not only of humility, but of extreme gentleness, like the gentleness of a sick child. They were but moments, often followed by gusts of bitter speech. In the bitter moments Arthur was to him the prodigal son who had deserted him; in the tender moments the only human creature on whose love he might repose. It was Arthur's lot to listen in silence to a hundred hurting comments on his conduct, uttered with sardonic scorn, and all the talent for invective which a disordered brain and wounded heart could contrive. And then, just when he was goaded almost beyond endurance, the mood would change, the black squall of rage would pass, and an inimitable softness, like the softness of a rain-washed sky, succeed it. "I begin to think I'm a fool," he said once, after one of these explosions. "Well, you must forgive me. I'm a new kind of Job, and, like Job, I speak foolishly. I never could make out why they called Job patient. The thing I admire in Job is that he wasn't patient. He let himself rip. He cursed himself tired. Well, that's like me. I've got to do it, or burst." "But Job trusted God through it all, father. Can't you?" "Did he? Well, if he did at first, he didn't in the middle, any way. And I'm in the middle of the mess. And, besides, I don't see what God's got to do with it. As I understand it, a man's got to go through with things to the end, and the only satisfaction he'll get out of it is that he hasn't squealed." It was a poor enough philosophy no doubt, but there was no denying the tonic virtue in it. And perhaps it was the only kind of medicine for this mind diseased, as Arthur came to see. For a nature of such stubborn fibre the commonplaces of religion had no efficacy. And with that stubbornness there was allied a certain indomitable honesty, which perceived their essential falsity. Let it stand to Masterman's credit that he was unwilling to blame God for his own misdoings, or to ask for a release to which he knew he had no right. He would bear his own burden, simply because, in the long run, that was what all men had to do, religion notwithstanding. And, whereas the attempt to shift his burden upon God would have fed his weakness, the very effort to bear it alone increased his strength. One evening, when the gentler mood was on him, he drew from Arthur his story of his own doings since the day he left London. Up to this time he had not manifested the least interest; it was a subject he had purposely avoided. When Arthur described the life upon the ranch, he had many questions to ask. "Then you worked with your hands, did you?" "Of course, father. No day labourer ever worked harder." "And you liked it?" "Yes, I liked it. It was hard enough at first; but I soon got used to that, and I liked it."