The first days of spring contrasted strongly with Marley's mood. Because of some mysterious similarity in the two seasons he found the melancholy suggestion of fall in this spring, just as, with his high-flown hopes, he had found some of the joyous suggestion of spring in the autumn before. But as failure followed failure, he began to feel more and more an alien in Macochee; he had a sense of exile among his own kind, he was tortured by the thought that here, in a world where each man had some work to do and where, as it seemed, all men had suddenly grown happy in that work, there was no work for him to do. He was young, healthy, and ambitious; he had given years to what he had been taught was a necessary preparation, and then suddenly, just as he felt himself ready for life, he found that there was no place in life for him. As he went about seeking employment there was borne in on him a sense of criticism and opposition, and he was depressed and humiliated. By the end of the winter he disliked showing himself anywhere; he no longer stopped in the McBriar House of an afternoon to watch Lawrence and Halliday at the billiards they played so well; he thought he detected a coolness in Lawrence's treatment of him. He felt, or imagined, this coolness in everybody's attitude now, and finally began to suspect it in the Blairs. "What's the matter?" asked Powell, one morning. "You ain't sick, are you?" Marley shook his head. "Well, something ails you. I can see that." He waited for Marley to speak. "Is there anything I can do for you?" "No," said Marley, "thank you. I've just been feeling a little bit blue, that's all." "What about?" "Oh, I don't know. I'm kind o' discouraged. It seems to me that I'm wasting time; I'm not making any headway and then everybody in town is--" "I wouldn't mind that," said Powell, divining the trouble at once. "They've had me on the gridiron for about forty years, and they never get tired of giving it a twist. It doesn't bother me much any more, and I don't see why you should let it bother you, especially as all they say about you is a damn lie." The speech touched Marley, and he lost himself in an impulse of sympathy for Powell, but he could not put his sympathy before Powell in the way he would like and his mind soon returned to himself. "I've got to do something," he said. "I wish I knew what." "Well," said Powell, "you know what I've always told you. I know what I'd do if I were your age. Of course--" Powell did not finish his sentence. He was looking out the window again, lost in introspection.