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.
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