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And she and Karl were so happy! It had been such a glorious,
wholesome, splendidly worth while winter.
It was one afternoon in early spring that over in the laboratory John
Beason and Professor Hastings were talking of Dr. Hubers. "But that isn't
all of it," said Professor Hastings in the midst of a discussion. "This
fanaticism for veracity Huxley talks about isn't all of it by any means.
Any of us can get together a lot of facts. It takes the big man to know
what the facts mean."
"Somebody said that truth was the soul of facts," said Beason, in the
uncertain way he talked of anything outside tabulated knowledge. "But I
suppose that's just one of those things people say."
"Yes--but is it? Isn't it true? Why is Hubers greater than the rest of
us? It isn't that he works harder. We all work. It isn't that he's more
exact. We're all exact. Isn't it that very thing of having a genius
for getting the soul out of his facts? That man looks a long way
ahead--smells truth away off, as it were.


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