Your husband carries a soul not to be quelled by
three months in a well-ordered mad-house. But I will read no more,
since what gives me satisfaction gives you pain."
"Oh, yes, yes! Don't let me lose a word my husband has ever uttered."
"Well, I'll go on; but I'm horribly discouraged."
"I'm so sorry for that sir. Please forgive me."
Mr. Rolfe read the letter next in date--
"We are honored with one relic of antiquity, a Pythagorean. He has
obliged me with his biography. He was, to use his own words, engendered
by the sun shining on a dunghill at his father's door,' and began his
career as a flea; but his identity was, somehow, shifted to a boy of
nine years old. He has had a long spell of humanity, and awaits the
great change--which is to turn him to a bee. It will not find him
unprepared; he has long practiced humming, in anticipation. A faithful
friend, called Caffyn, used to visit him every week. Caffyn died last
year, and the poor Pythagorean was very lonely and sad; but, two months
ago, he detected his friend in the butcher's horse, and is more than
consoled, for he says, Caffyn comes six times a week now, instead of
once.'"
"Poor soul!" said Lady Bassett. "What a strange world for him to be
living in. It seems like a dream."
"There is something stranger coming in this last letter.
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