Perhaps she had overcome months before.
Till now she had not known.
At last—only ashes—where once had been love—
He stood there—looking at her.
She saw him only as a stranger—
She did not know him—save his name—
The new Lydia—the artist—could find nothing in common, no union of thought.
What strange lost element in her had once loved this man—
Lydia—risen from the ashes—walked out into the snow and cold. She felt her release to a new freedom. She could meet him again—without harm—
Anywhere—