was mad, or they would not have gone by so quietly: mad with
hunger; stretching out his hands to the world, that had given so
much to them, for leave to live the life God meant him to live.
His soul within him was smothering to death; he wanted so much,
thought so much, and knew--nothing. There was nothing of which
he was certain, except the mill and things there. Of God and
heaven he had heard so little, that they were to him what fairy-
land is to a child: something real, but not here; very far off.
His brain, greedy, dwarfed, full of thwarted energy and unused
powers, questioned these men and women going by, coldly,
bitterly, that night. Was it not his right to live as they,--a
pure life, a good, true-hearted life, full of beauty and kind
words? He only wanted to know how to use the strength within
him. His heart warmed, as he thought of it. He suffered
himself to think of it longer. If he took the money?

Then he saw himself as he might be, strong, helpful, kindly.
The night crept on, as this one image slowly evolved itself from
the crowd of other thoughts and stood triumphant. He looked at
it. As he might be! What wonder, if it blinded him to
delirium,--the madness that underlies all revolution, all
progress, and all fall?

You laugh at the shallow temptation? You see the error
underlying its argument so clearly,--that to him a true life was
one of full development rather than self-restraint? that he was
deaf to the higher tone in a cry of voluntary suffering for
truth's sake than in the fullest flow of spontaneous harmony?
I do not plead his cause. I only want to show you the mote in
my brother's eye: then you can see clearly to take it out.