," dryly interrupted
the man, with a critical look at her flushing and paling face.

People of standfast habit were always shy of this young person, because,
having an acute brain and generous impulses, and being a New-Englander
by birth, she had believed herself called to be a reformer, and had
lectured in public last winter. Her lightest remarks had, somehow, an
oratorical twang. The man might have seen what a true, grand face hers
would be, when time had taken off the acrid, aggressive heat which the,
to her, novel wrongs in the world provoked in it.

"When you see the man," interposed her uncle, "you will understand why
Miss Defourchet espouses his cause so hotly. Nobody is proof against his
intense, fierce belief in this thing he has made. It reminds me of the
old cases of possession by a demon."

The young girl looked up quickly.

"Demon? It was the spirit of God, the Bible says, that filled Bezaleel
and that other, I forget his name, with wisdom to work in gold and
silver and fine linen. It's the spirit of God that you call
genius,--anything that reveals truth: in pictures, or actions,
_or_--machines."

Friend Turner, who was there, took her fingers in his wrinkled hand.

"Thee feels strongly, Mary."

"I wish you could see the man," in a lower voice. "Your old favorite,
Fichte," with a smile, "says that 'thorough integrity of purpose is our
nearest approach to the Divine idea.' There never was such integrity of
purpose as his, I believe. Men don't often fight through hunger and want
like death, for a pure aim. And I tell you, if fate thwarts him at this
last chance, it is unjust and cruel."

"Thee means _God_, thee knows?"

She was silent, then looked up.

"I do know."

The old Quaker put his hand kindly on her hair.

"He will find His own teachers for thee, dear," was all the reproof he
gave.

There was a noise in the hall, and a servant, opening the door, ushered
in Andy, and behind him the machinist, Starke. A younger man than Friend
Turner had expected to see,--about fifty, his hair prematurely white, in
coarse, but decent brown clothes, bearing in his emaciated limbs and
face marks of privation, it was true, but with none of the fierce
enthusiasm of expression or nervousness he had looked for. A quiet,
grave, preoccupied manner. While Dr. Bowdler and some of the others
crowded about him, he stood, speaking seldom, his hands clasped behind
him and his head bent forward, the gray hair brushed