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Donal Grant, by George MacDonald by George MacDonald;Donal Grant
page 11 of 729 (01%)
him. He is a fool who stands and lets life move past him like a
panorama. He also is a fool who would lay hands on its motion, and
change its pictures. He can but distort and injure, if he does not
ruin them, and come upon awful shadows behind them.

And lo! as he glanced around him, already something of the old
mysterious loveliness, now for so long vanished from the face of the
visible world, had returned to it--not yet as it was before, but
with dawning promise of a new creation, a fresh beauty, in welcoming
which he was not turning from the old, but receiving the new that
God sent him. He might yet be many a time sad, but to lament would
be to act as if he were wronged--would be at best weak and foolish!
He would look the new life in the face, and be what it should
please God to make him. The scents the wind brought him from field
and garden and moor, seemed sweeter than ever wind-borne scents
before: they were seeking to comfort him! He sighed--but turned
from the sigh to God, and found fresh gladness and welcome. The
wind hovered about him as if it would fain have something to do in
the matter; the river rippled and shone as if it knew something
worth knowing as yet unrevealed. The delight of creation is verily
in secrets, but in secrets as truths on the way. All secrets are
embryo revelations. On the far horizon heaven and earth met as old
friends, who, though never parted, were ever renewing their
friendship. The world, like the angels, was rejoicing--if not over
a sinner that had repented, yet over a man that had passed from a
lower to a higher condition of life--out of its earth into its air:
he was going to live above, and look down on the inferior world!
Ere the shades of evening fell that day around Donal Grant, he was
in the new childhood of a new world.

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