thorns, and indeed every sensitive creature carries one in
secret.  But there are times when it ought to be worn cocked over
one ear. 

He opened the furnace door.  A bright glow filled the fire-box: he
could hear a stir and singing in the boiler, and the rustle of
warm pipes that chuckled quietly through winter nights of storm.
Over the coals hovered a magic evasive flicker, the very soul of
fire.  It was a Pentecostal flame, perfect and heavenly in tint,
the essence of pure colour, a clear immortal blue. 

THE END 

End of the Project Gutenberg Etext of Where the Blue Begins.