When he re-entered the house he
looked as he had not for years. He was beaming.
"Come, this is a palace," he said to himself, and
chuckled with pure joy. He had come out of the
awful empty spaces of homeless life into home. He
was a man who had naturally strong domestic in-
stincts. If he had spent the best years of his life
in a home instead of a prison, the finest in him would
have been developed. As it was, this was not even
now too late. When he had cooked his bacon and
eggs and brewed his tea, when the vegetables were
done and he was seated upon the rickety chair, with
his supper spread before him on an old board propped
on sticks, he was supremely happy. He ate with a
relish which seemed to reach his soul. He was at
home, and eating, literally, at his own board. As
he ate he glanced from time to time at the two win-
dows, with broken panes of glass and curtainless.
He was not afraid -- that was nonsense; he had
never been a cowardly man, but he felt the need of
curtains or something before his windows to shut
out the broad vast face of nature, or perhaps prying
human eyes. Somebody might espy the light in the
house and wonder. He had a candle stuck in an old
bottle by way of illumination. Still, although he
would have preferred to have curtains before those
windows full of the blank stare of night, he WAS
supremely happy.
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