m pain. Perhaps the
truth is on the side of those mystics who say that although the mind is
of a higher nature than matter, it is so closely involved with it that
neither can get away from the other, and that both together tend to shut
out the spirit and to forget its existence, which is a perpetual
reproach to them; and any ordinary intellectual effort being produced by
the joint activity of mind and the matter through which the mind acts,
the condition of the spirit at the time has little or no effect upon
them, nor upon what they are doing. And if one would carry the little
theory further, one might find that the greatest works of genius have
been produced when the effort of mind and matter has taken place under
the inspiration of the spirit, so that all three were momentarily
involved together. But such thoughts lead far, and it may be that they
profit little. The best which a man means to do is generally better than
the best he does, and it is perhaps the best he is capable of doing.

Be these things as they may, Zorzi worked hard in the laboratory,
minutely carrying out the instructions he had received, but reasoning
upon them with a freshness and keenness of thought of which his master
was no longer capable. When he had made the trials and had added the new
ingredients for future ones, he began to think out methods of his own
which had suggested themselves to him of late, but which he had never
been able to try. But though he had the furnace to himself, to use as
long as he could endure the heat of the advancing summer, he was face
to face with a difficulty that seemed insuperable.

The furnace had but three crucibles, each of which contained one of the
mixtures by means of which he and Beroviero were trying to produce the
famous red glass. In order to begin to make glass in his own way, it was
necessary that one of the three should be emptied, but unless he
disobeyed his orders this was out of the question. In his train of
thought and longing to try what he felt sure must succeed, he had
forgotten the obstacle. The check brought him back to himself, and he
walked disconsolately up and down the long room by the side of the
furnace.

Everything was against him, said the melancholy little demon that
torments genius on dark days. It was not enough that he should be forced
by every consideration of honour and wisdom to hide his love for his
master's daughter; when he took refuge in his art and tried to throw his
w