glance at. Time enough when he was again flung out on that merciless,
unrecognizing world he had come to loathe; loathe and dread. When that
time came it would taste exceeding bitter in his mouth. All the more
reason, then, to let the present furnish sweet food for retrospect; food
that would offset the aloes of retribution. Thus Garrison philosophized.

And, though but vaguely aware of the fact, this philosophy of
procrastination (but another form of selfishness) was the spawn of
a supposition; the supposition that his love for Sue Desha was not
returned; that it was hopeless, absurd. He was not injuring her. He was
the moth, she the flame. He did not realize that the moth can extinguish
the candle.

He had learned some of life's lessons, though the most difficult had
been forgotten, but he had yet to understand the mighty force of love;
that it contains no stagnant quality. Love, reciprocal love, uplifts.
But there must be that reciprocal condition to cling to. For love is
not selfishness on a grand scale, but a glorified pride. And the fine
differentiation between these two words is the line separating the love
that fouls from the love that cleanses.

And even as Garrison was fighting out the night with his sleepless
thoughts, Sue Desha was in the same restless condition. Mr. Waterbury
had arrived. His generous snores could be heard stalking down the
corridor from the guest-chamber. He was of the abdominal variety of the
animal species, eating and sleeping his way through life, oblivious of
all obstacles.

Waterbury's ancestry was open to doubt. It was very vague; as vague as
his features. It could not be said that he was brought up by his hair