Rather dreamily she gazed at the fire. And mused to herself on the strangeness of life—
Ashes—
Something within her long ago had died. And the new Lydia had risen, stronger, better, for the horrible struggles against herself—
Against him.
Her art had been created by the ashes of a dead love.
She had conquered.
On the other side of the fireplace was standing the man she had once loved.
The man who had once possessed her every waking hour.
She had fought. An inward battle—a brave struggle—
In another town she had begged him not to see her—not to write.