stove. The fire was nearly dying, but the evening being warm, there was no need to put more coals on. Quietly I watched the flames dying away. Like leaves in the wood the pieces of coal fell rustling together, black death forced his way deeper and deeper into the fire, methodically he marched from piece to piece, until the last embers were buried in the collapse of the entire heap.
All over! The words sounded again in my ears, no longer gaily, but sadly and sorrowfully. I went on sitting there, while the darkness gathered round me and I thought.
The fire in my room is put out, the fire which never caused me pain, but only brought me comfort and joy. My willing fire, which blazed hotly, crackled merrily or smouldered gently, just as I wanted it; my sweet, my beautiful fire is no more. It is dead, and I myself have put it out. And am I sure that I shall ever find a better? Dare I hope that another fire is burning for me somewhere in the world? Ah, call the fire back again! Throw open the gates for it, and you need not doubt but that your faithful fire will return; it only needs your breath to call it back to life.
I jumped up. I lit candles and lamps. Again I heard the triumphant fanfare! You are not made to long and to mourn. What has happened was bound to happen. You are free, free!
It is all over!
