Fires had begun,
and the glow of the burning logs shone through the room. The return
to this home of his chief studies and pursuits during many
delightful years was always, at any hour of the day or year, a
moment of pleasure to the Squire. Here was shelter, here was
escape--both from the troubles he had brought upon himself, and from
the world tumult outside, the work of crazy politicians and
incompetent diplomats. But if there was any season when the long
crowded room was more attractive than at any other, it was in these
autumn evenings when firelight and twilight mingled, and the natural
'homing' instinct of the Northerner, accustomed through long ages to
spend long winters mostly indoors, stirred in his blood.
His books, too, spoke to him; and the beautiful dim forms of bronzes
and terra-cottas, with all their suggestions of high poetry and
consummate art, breathing from the youth of the world. He
understood--passionately--the jealous and exclusive temper of the
artist. It was his own temper--though he was no practising
artist--and accounted largely for his actions.
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