He rose and paced the little room. He was not the man who had entered it ten weeks ago--broken, helpless in weakness. His step on the floor was firm and the hand that reached out to the tongs was steady in its grip. He readjusted a log in the fireplace and replaced the tongs. Then he stood looking down at the fire. He had grown fond of the flames--leaping there. He would miss them when he went back to his office--and the cold town house. He glanced about the little room affectionately.
... The boy had filled it with love and thoughtfulness from the first day. It was sweet now with pine and spruce and hemlock--fastened everywhere--running along the walls and heaped in corners. The boy had brought it in from the woods for Christmas Day. The scent of it was like the woods themselves--Something mysterious and deep was in the room. The woods were in the room. The man breathed deep and looked around him.... How he would miss it all.... But his work was waiting... and he was ready. He stretched out an arm straight from the shoulder and looked with quiet pride at the hand. It did not quiver, by a breath, from its place. The arm dropped at his side.... He was ready... almost. The shadow flickered across his face. It retreated to his eyes and crouched ... waiting. He sat down before the andirons and looked defiantly into the hot coals.... Some senseless, half-crazed words mumbled at him.... He shrugged his shoulder.... He would not hear them. The firm hand had clinched itself on his knee.... A face grew out of the fire, red-eyed and old and imbecile. It swung before his gaze full of hatred and leering malice, and the clinched hand lifted itself. ... The face was fading, line by line, in the flickering light. The mumbled words grew faint. They sank to a whisper... and died away. ... It was the voice of the child--clear and low, “We must e’en forgi’e ’em.”
He sank hack, wiping the heads from his forehead. He stared before him--seeking a way out.... He had offered the man money.... He had given him the farm, free of rent--and it was a good farm, they said--the Bardwell farm--Was it not enough?... He brooded on it, sitting there. The loneliness outside crept into the room.... The snow had ceased to fall, and through the uncurtained window he caught a glimpse of light shining. He got up and went to the window and looked out. The white clouds seemed to be being drawn across the sky by unseen hands; beyond them the stars shone clear. The snowy landscape glowed faint beneath them.... Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and turned away. He crossed quickly to the door and threw it open and stood peering out.