He was conscious of a sensible ebb as if the tide about his heart had suddenly sunk lower.

Perhaps, it was the cooling of the atmosphere as the fire in his library died out,--or was it his blood?
He went back into his library not ten minutes, but ten years older than when he left it.
He sank into his chair and insensibly began to scan his life.

He had just seen himself as he was; he now saw himself as he had been long ago, and saw how he had become what he was.

The whole past lay before him like a slanting pathway.
He followed it back to where it began--in an old home far off in the country.
He was a very little boy.

All about was the bustle and stir of preparation for Christmas.