“For,” he said, “the thing that is not, may continue not to be; but the thing that is, should be as it was meant to be. Where it is not such, there is an evil that wants remedy. It may be that the sole remedy is binding, but that involves destruction, therefore is a poor thing beside renovation.”
The argument came from a well of human pity in himself, deeper than Richard knew. But both the pity he felt and the truth in what he said came from a source eternal of which he yet knew nothing.
“It would be much easier,” continued Richard, “to make that volume look new, but how much more delightful to send it out with a revived assertion of its ancient self!”
Some natures have a better chance of disclosing the original in them, that they have not been to college, and set to think in other people's grooves, instead of those grooves that were scored in themselves long before the glacial era.
“For my part,” said Arthur, “I feel like a book that needs to be fresh printed, not to say fresh bound! I don't feel why I am what I am. I would part with it all, except just being the same man!”
While the youths were having their talk, Alice was in Jane's bedroom, undergoing an examination, the end and object of which it was impossible she should suspect. Caught by a certain look in her sweet face, reminding her of a look that was anything but sweet, Jane had set herself to learn from her what she might as to her people and history.
“Is your father alive, my dear?” she asked, with her keen black eyes on Alice's face.
That grew red, and for a moment the girl did not answer. Jane pursued her catechizing.
“What was his trade or profession?” she inquired.
The girl said nothing, and the merciless questioner went on.