Youth, life renewed, yes, that is what it was, its very essence; to taste of that elixir, and start back along the flowery, sunlit way of which his guest had spoken; to feel the blood start more quickly in his veins, a new spring in his muscles; to know that a new bloom had come into his cheek, a new light into his eye. But, then, the other things, they would come, too. Along that fair backward way lurked all the temptations, the dangers, the heartbreaks--all the efforts and the failures he had once left behind. Did he want to face them again? Did he want to endure again all those years of the struggle of human wisdom with human weakness? He knew it would mean that, and that the same old fights and failures would be his share. He had never thought of it before, but he knew now that it must be so. Yet, to tread that flowery way, to begin to-night! He wheeled around to the dying fire, and sat staring into the deep coals and flickering blaze, balancing the golden vial in his hand, as one weighing a decision. To tread that flowery way, with its blue skies and its singing birds, to feel one’s heart bursting with a new ecstasy, to reach again the land of hope and love, and to linger there with some one--some one with a heart full of love and life! He had always been so lonely! The age of work, his own age, his guest had chosen to linger there; had resisted all other temptations for that. With the wisdom of fourscore years and all his subtle gift for detecting and avoiding dangers, he had chosen the middle age of life for his abiding-place. The age of work, yes, it was that, if one only made it his vantage-ground. But, oh, the glory of the flowery way, with all its dangers and all its heartbreaks! His decision was swinging to and fro, like a pendulum: the age of work, the flowery way, the age of work? And he had been so idle. Perhaps that had been the trouble all along. “The age of work,” he whispered, “the age of achievement!” He balanced the precious vial more quickly. It caught the flicker of a waning blaze and became a great, throbbing ruby in his hand. “To live life over! To go back and begin the game anew! Good God!” Then--he did not know how it happened--the little bottle toppled, fell, and struck the stone hearth, splashing its contents into the dying embers. There was a leap of yellow flame, which an instant later had become vivid scarlet, changing as quickly to crimson, deep purple, then to a flare of blinding white, and was gone. Carringford, startled for a moment, sat gazing dumbly at the ashes of his dying fire. “The question has decided itself,” he said. A LAST MESSAGE BY GRACE DENIO LITCHFIELD