As to the peculiar doctrines of the sect to which he had joined
himself, right or wrong in themselves, Marston, after having
complied with what seemed to him the letter of the law concerning
baptism, gave himself no further trouble. He had for a long time
known--for, by the power of the life in him, he had gathered from
the Scriptures the finest of the wheat, where so many of every
sect, great church and little church, gather only the husks and
chaff--that the only baptism of any avail is the washing of the
fresh birth, and the making new by that breath of God, which,
breathed into man's nostrils, first made of him a living soul.
When a man _knows_ this, potentially he knows all things.
But, _just therefore_, he did not stand high with his sect
any more than with his customers, though--a fact which Marston
himself never suspected--the influence of his position had made
them choose him for a deacon. One evening George had had leave to
go home early, because of a party at _the villa_, as the
Turnbulls always called their house; and, the boy having also for
some cause got leave of absence, Mr. Marston was left to shut the
shop himself, Mary, who was in some respects the stronger of the
two, assisting him. When he had put up the last shutter, he
dropped his arms with a weary sigh. Mary, who had been fastening
the bolts inside, met him in the doorway.
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