CHAPTER XXIII
Northrup found his tower room but little changed. The dust lay upon it, and a peace that had not held part during the last days before he went away greeted him. More and more as he sat apart the truth of things came to him; he accepted the grim fact that all, everything, is bound by a chain, the links of which must hold, or, if they are broken, they must be welded again together. The world; people; everything in time must pause while repairs were made, and he had done his best toward the mending of a damaged world: toward righting his own mistakes.
It was slow work. Good God! how slow, and oh, the suffering!
He had paid a high price but he could now look at his city without shame.
This was a fortifying thought, but a lonely one, and it did not lead to constructive work. The days were listless and empty.
Northrup got out his manuscript––there was life in it, he made sure of that, but it was feeble and would require intelligent concentration in order to justify its existence.
But the intelligence and concentration were not in his power to bestow.
After a few days he regarded his new freedom with strange exhilaration mingled with fear and distrust.