He lit his pipe. All around, into the thin air, the sharp crests of the mountains rose.
Every now and again he threw on fresh fuel, and the long yellow tongues of fire sprang up, and showers of scarlet sparks were scattered on every side.
It was very solemn alone up there in the stillness. The man felt as if the fire were a comrade, watching with him.
He drew nearer to it, leaning forward to gaze into its glowing depths. He began to see pictures there.
First, the picture of his mother. Her gentle face seemed near enough to kiss. He saw a little boy kneeling by her, with clasped hands, to repeat the prayer, "Our Father who art in Heaven."
Then came another picture—the same mother-face, older and thinner, and the same boy, grown tall and strong, and an open garden gate, through which the boy was going out into the unknown world.
