When she had finished the pile, she sat for some time gazing at the burning logs.

The little epitome of his daily life--there were records there even of many of his social engagements-seemed to carry her into another atmosphere, an atmosphere far removed from this lonely spot upon the moors.

She seemed to catch from those printed lines some faint, reflective thrill of the more vital world of strife in which he was living.

For a moment the roar of London was in her ears.

She saw the lighted thoroughfares, the crowded pavements, the faces of the men and women, all a little strained and eager, so different from the placid immobility of the world in which she lived.