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Updated: May 2, 2025
It might be pointed out to such a reasoner, firstly, that as regards any acquired power the various stages in the acquisition of which he might be supposed able to remember, he would find that logic notwithstanding, the wish did originate the power, and yet was originated by it, both coming up gradually out of something which was not recognisable as either power or wish, and advancing through vain beating of the air, to a vague effort, and from this to definite effort with failure, and from this to definite effort with success, and from this to success with little consciousness of effort, and from this to success with such complete absence of effort that he now acts unconsciously and without power of introspection, and that, do what he will, he can rarely or never draw a sharp dividing line whereat anything shall be said to begin, though none less certain that there has been a continuity in discontinuity, and a discontinuity in continuity between it and certain other past things; moreover, that his opponents postulated so much beginning of the microscope as that there should be a dew-drop, even as our evolutionists start with a sense of touch, of which sense all the others are modifications, so that not one of them, but is resolvable into touch by more or less easy stages; and secondly, that the question is one of fact and of the more evident deductions therefrom, and should not be carried back to those remote beginnings where the nature of the facts is so purely a matter of conjecture and inference.
There was no room for doubt or mistake. The chamois bag contained a portion of the jewels stolen from the pavilion of Monsieur Lausch. There were some half-dozen of the dew-drop sparklers taken with the silver-leaf tray, one large topaz and two of the smaller ones, and there were also two solitaire rings which were not of the Lausch collection.
The kind, mild eyes were fixed upon the sunset sadly, and their blue depths seemed to hold more than one dew-drop, ready to pass the barrier of the long dusky lashes, which closed gradually as the pure white forehead drooped upon her hand. For a long time the tender heart remained thus still and quiet; then her lips moved faintly, and she murmured "Oh, it is wrong I know it is I ought not to!"
Where this desperate courage that would sweep the whole world away if it stood between them? Where, indeed? He was standing only a few feet from her cold, silent, and tremulous! She drew back a step, lifted her head with a quick toss that seemed to condense the moisture in her shining eyes, and sent what might have been a glittering dew-drop flying into the loosed tendrils of her hair.
Say rather, as much greater and more glorious as the sun is greater and more glorious than the light which sparkles in the dew-drop on the grass. The love and goodness and holiness of a saint or an angel is the light in that dew-drop, borrowed from the sun.
It is the perception by the Finite, of its Infinite Essence. Or, the perception by the Relative of its Absolute Essence. Or, the perception by You, or I, or any other man or woman, of the Real Self, which underlies all the sham self or Personality. It is the reflection of the Sun, in the dew-drop, and thousands of dew-drops seemingly thousands of Suns, and yet but One.
And in the youth's hand were two spears of silver, sharp, well-tempered, headed with steel, three ells in length, of an edge to wound the wind, and cause blood to flow, and swifter than the fall of the dew-drop from the blade of reed-grass, when the dew of June is at the heaviest.
But he, whose kin are there, yet no longer near, who has dropped out of all the varied companionship of a full home the starry universe itself seems to bristle to look on him in his darkness. Where I am, I am not. I am far away from those who are around me. I live and move upon a world-wide chasm of separation, unstable as the dew-drop upon the lotus leaf.
The beautiful in this world is all from his hand declaring the perfection of taste; he is the author of all form; he clothes the lily, he colors the rose, he distils the dew-drop, he makes the music of nature; in a word, he organized us for this life, and imposed its conditions; and they are such guaranty to me that, trustful as a little child, I leave to him the organization of my Soul, and every arrangement for the life after death.
Her tiny hand, rough and red with cold and toil, clasped devoutly upon her breast, and her lips moved as if in prayer. The little black quilted hood she wore had fallen back, revealing soft golden hair, radiant in the slant rays of the declining sun, and upon her cheek a tear glistened like a dew-drop on a flower. "The tears came to Little Wolf's eyes.
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