forgotten. Not that desolate room with firelight and candle; not
the poor farmhouse; not the meagre farm, nor the whole broad
Kentucky plateau of fields and woods, heavy with winter wealth,
heavy with comfortable homesteads--any longer held him as domicile,
or native region: he was gone far away into the company of his
high-minded masters, the writers of those books. Choosing one, he
closed the lid of the trunk reluctantly over the rest, and with the
book in one hand and the chair in the other, went back to the fire.

An hour passed, during which, one elbow on the table, the shaded
side of his face supported in the palm of his hand, he read, scarce
moving except to snuff the wick or to lay on a fresh fagot. At the
end of this time other laws than those which the writer was tracing
began to assert their supremacy over David--the laws of strength
and health, warmth and weariness. Sleep was descending on him,
relaxing his limbs, spreading a quiet mist through his brain,
caressing his eyelids. He closed the pages and turned to his dying
fire. The book caused him to wrestle; he wanted rest.

And now, floating to him through that mist in his brain, as softly
as a nearing melody, as radiantly as dawning light, came the image
of Gabriella: after David had pursued Knowledge awhile he was ready
for Love. But knowledge, truth, wisdom before every other earthly
passion--that was the very soul of him. His heart yearned for her
now in this closing hour, when everything else out of his way,
field-work, stable-work, wood-cutting, filial duties, study, he was
alone with the thought of her, the newest influence in his life,
taking heed of her solely, hearkening only to his heart's need of
her. In all his rude existence she was the only being he had ever
known who seemed to him worthy of a place in the company of his