It
was spring now, and all through the winter he had worked hard. He had
come back in the fall determining in the gratitude of his great happiness
to do the best work of his life. He pulled his microscope over in front
of him and looked over it after the manner of one dreaming. How many days
he had come to it eager to note the slightest significance in its
variations of colour, for the staining of the slides made colour count in
his work almost as it did in Ernestine's, only to be met with the
non-essential, more of the husk and no sight of the kernel. He smiled a
little to think what a bulky and stupid volume it would make were he to
write down all he had done. If each hope, each possibility, each
experiment and verification were to be put down, he could quite rival in
bulk a government report. And if added to that should be a report of the
cases he had watched, the operations he had attended, the attempts at
getting living matter and of working with dead, how large and how useless
that volume would be were it to contain it all! He had done days and days
of useless work to get the slightest thing that was significant.
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