hat the most powerful joy slides into the hearts of men and
women and children. Beautiful are the feet of the men of science on the
dust-heaps of the world, but the patient heart will yield a myriad
times greater thanks for the clouds that give foothold to the shining
angels.

Few people were interested in William Marston. Of those who saw him in
the shop, most turned from him to his jolly partner. But a few there
were who, some by instinct, some from experience, did look for him
behind the counter, and were disappointed if he were absent: most of
them had a repugnance to the over-complaisant Turnbull. Yet Marston was
the one whom the wise world of Testbridge called the hypocrite, and
Turnbull was the plain-spoken, agreeable, honest man of the world,
pretending to be no better either than himself or than other people.
The few friends, however, that Marston bad, loved him as not many are
loved: they knew him, not as he seemed to the careless eye, but as he
was. Never did man do less either to conceal or to manifest himself. He
was all taken up with what he loved, and that was neither himself nor
his business. These friends knew that, when the far-away look was on
him, when his face was paler, and he seemed unaware of person or thing
about him, he was not indifferent to their presence, or careless of
their existence; it was only that his thoughts were out, like heavenly
bees, foraging; a word of direct address brought him back in a moment,
and his soul would return to them with a smile. He stood as one on the
keystone of a bridge, and held communion now with these, now with
those: on this side the river and on that, both companies were his own.

He was not a man of much education, in the vulgar use of the word; but
he was a good way on in that education, for the sake of which, and for
no other without it, we are here in our consciousness--the education
which, once begun, will, soon or slow, lead knowledge captive, and
teaches nothing that has to be unlearned again, because every flower of
it scatters the seed of one better than itself. The main secret of his
progress, the secret of all wisdom, was, that with him action was the
beginning and end of thought. He was not one of that cloud of false
witnesses, who, calling themselves Christians, take no trouble for the
end for which Christ was born, namely, their salvation from
unrighteousness--a class that may be divided into the insipid and the
offensive, both regardless of