The flames broke into a quantity of little tongues of blue fire,
springing up and disappearing fitfully, while the broken ends of the log
smoked.
The sight brought back certain memories to him. In days gone by Elena
had been fond of lingering over this fireside. She expended much art and
ingenuity in piling the wood high on the fire-dogs, grasping the heavy
tongs in both hands and leaning her head slightly back to avoid the
sparks. Her hands were small and very supple, with that tendril-like
flexibility, so to speak, of a Daphne at the very first onset of the
fabled metamorphose.
Scarcely were these matters arranged to her satisfaction than the logs
would catch and send forth a sudden blaze, and the warm ruddy light
would struggle for a moment with the icy gray shades of evening
filtering through the windows. The sharp fumes of the burning wood
seemed to rise to her head, and facing the glowing mass Elena would be
seized with fits of childish glee. She had a rather cruel habit of
pulling all the flowers to pieces and scattering them over the carpet at
the end of each of her visits and then stand ready to go, fastening a
glove or a bracelet, and smile in the midst of the devastation she had
wrought.
Nothing was changed since then. A host of memories were associated with
these things which Elena had touched, on which her eyes had rested, and
scenes of that time rose up vividly and tumultuously before him.
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