Her face clouded. But the eyes were untroubled. “I don’t fink _anybody_ loves _him_,” she said simply, “But Grannie says we e’en must.” She gave a little sigh. “So you will!” “Yes--I love him.” The voice was full of her ignorance--a kind of sing-song chant, but somehow it gripped him strangely.... As if he heard in some inner world--faint, ringing little bells of joy and sadness and the mystery of life. XXV He sat in front of the fire brooding absently. He had been alone all day--ever since John left in the early morning. The boy was coming back tonight. He had said that he would come--but that Simeon must not wait for him; he must go to bed as usual. It was late now, but Simeon in front of the fire waited impatiently.... A strange loneliness was on him. Outside the snow had been falling fitfully all day. The ground was covered with still whiteness. Across the waste of snow he heard a distant clock strike softly and far away--eight--nine--ten--and still he waited, brooding there by the fire. He wanted to see some one--to touch a friendly hand--before he fell into the deep sleep that would cut him off. A strange yearning toward his fellowmen had come upon him in the last days. The child’s words followed him wistfully--“We must e’en love ’em,” he whispered to himself, wondering at the strange tugging at his heart--Tiny cords seemed to reach out from him, threading their way, spreading wide-seeking men and women. 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.