Was he losing his mind? Or was it but
the fever? Was the end coming?--and far from home, too--Home?--he had no
home. One place was as good as another to him. He had no distinct
recollection how he got to the usual hayloft, nor how long he lay there.
It was one confused mass of pains and dreams and fantastic shapes. Then
the fever must have burned out, for he awoke one night with a clear
brain. Then he slept again.
On awakening next morning and crawling out, he saw the sun shining on
the snow-tipped peaks of the mountains. He had dreamed during the night
of his mother and Virginia and Nina, and the dream had impressed him
deeply. His haggard face was covered with a short beard; his clothes
were dirty, and some rents were getting large. Yes, he had reached the
bottom. He could go no further. He was a tramp--a dirty tramp. He had
got to the end of his rope. He would reach the mountains which he still
loved, and there on some cliff he would lie down and die. He would do
it--would do it!
All that day he walked.
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