The grey ashes of his
own life seemed spread around him. And it was he, who was asked, out of
this, to rekindle a great flame? And what flame? What was there left for
Ernestine? Ask her to come back--to what? Fight--for what?
He did not know, or at least he said he did not know, and yet he, like
Georgia, saw it as all wrong, unendurable, not to be countenanced, that
Ernestine should shut herself out from life.
Perhaps he was going to her because he knew so well the desolation of
ashes. Was it because he had lived so long among them that he hated to
see another fire go out? Could it be that a man who had dwelt long among
ashes knew most surely the worth of the flame?
He had reached the end of his journey. He had come to the western college
town for which he had set out. From the window he could see some of the
college buildings. Yes, this was the place.
He rose and put on his coat. A few minutes later he was standing on the
station platform, watching the on-going train. Then he turned, with
decision, in the direction Georgia had bade him go.
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