But when she had skimmed the last jar and set it back, and screwed it down among the embers, she remained on her knees, staring absently at a thin flame which had sprung up under the black pot.

She had forgotten his presence, forgotten him utterly; forgotten him, he judged, in thoughts as deep and gloomy as the wide dark cavern of chimney which yawned above her head and dwarfed the slight figure kneeling Cinderella-like among the ashes.
Claude Mercier looked and looked, and wondered, and at last longed: longed to comfort, to cherish, to draw to himself and shelter the budding womanhood before him, so fragile now, so full of promise for the future.

And quick as the flame had sprung up under her breath, a magic flame awoke in his heart, and burned high and hot.

If he did not lodge here, The sky might fall, fish fly, and sheep pursue The tawny monarch of the Libyan strand! But he would lodge here.

He coughed.
She started and turned, and seeing him, seeing that he had not gone, she rose with a frown.