Or perhaps to the Eye that sees and judges the difference is nothing.
Thus even these semi-secret interviews when two men met to talk over the details of a lost life with which, however profoundly it may have influenced them in the past, they appeared, so far as this world is concerned, to have nothing more to do, were destined to affect the future of one of them in a fashion that could scarcely have been foreseen.

This became apparent, or put itself in the way of becoming apparent, when on a certain evening Morris found Mr.Fregelius seated in the rectory dining-room, and by his side a little pile of manuscript volumes bound in shabby cloth.
"What are those ?" asked Morris.

"Her translation of the Saga of the Cave Outlaws ?" "No, Morris," answered Mr.Fregelius--he called him Morris when they were alone--"of course not.

Don't you remember that they were bound in red ?" he added reproachfully, "and that we did them up to send to the publisher last week ?" "Yes, yes, of course; he wrote to me yesterday to say that he would be glad to bring out the book"-- Morris did not add, "at my risk."-- "But what are they ?" "They are," replied Mr.Fregelius, "her journals, which she appears to have kept ever since she was fourteen years of age.

You remember she was going to London on the day that she was drowned--that Christmas Day?
Well, before she went out to the old church she packed her belongings into two boxes, and there those boxes have lain for three years and more, because I could never find the heart to meddle with them.