Then he asked what it was. Ah, it was too bad that he should
ask such a direct question. I had to answer it, of course, and I did.
I said it was fire. If it annoyed him that I should know and he must
ask; that was not my fault; I had no desire to annoy him. After a pause
he asked:
"How did it come?"
Another direct question, and it also had to have a direct answer.
"I made it."
The fire was traveling farther and farther off. He went to the edge of
the burned place and stood looking down, and said:
"What are these?"
"Fire-coals."
He picked up one to examine it, but changed his mind and put it down
again. Then he went away. NOTHING interests him.
But I was interested. There were ashes, gray and soft and delicate and
pretty--I knew what they were at once. And the embers; I knew the
embers, too. I found my apples, and raked them out, and was glad; for I
am very young and my appetite is active. But I was disappointed; they
were all burst open and spoiled. Spoiled apparently; but it was not so;
they were better than raw ones. Fire is beautiful; some day it will be
useful, I think.
FRIDAY.--I saw him again, for a moment, last Monday at nightfall, but
only for a moment. I was hoping he would praise me for trying to
improve the estate, for I had meant well and had worked hard.
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