"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.
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