He had
pondered much in an effort to account for the whim, carefully
considering all its phases, and he was still uncertain.
He knew he would receive no welcome; he knew he was not wanted. Had he
felt a longing to revisit the old place? Perhaps it had been that.
And yet, perhaps not, for he was here now, looking at it, living over
the life of his youth, riding again through the long bunch grass, over
the barren alkali flats, roaming again in the timber that fringed the
river--going over it all again and nothing stirred in his heart--no
pleasure, no joy, no satisfaction, no emotion whatever. If he felt any
curiosity he was entirely unconscious of it; it was dormant if it
existed at all. As he was able to consider her dispassionately he knew
that he had not come to look at his mother's grave. She had been
nothing to him, his heart did not beat a bit faster when he thought of
her.
Then, why had he come? He did not know or care. Had he been a
psychologist he might have attempted to frame reasons, building them
from foundations of high-sounding phrases, but he was a materialist,
and the science of mental phenomena had no place in his brain.
Something had impelled him to come and here he was, and that was reason
enough for him. And because he had no motive in coming he was taking
his time.
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