the evening.' He told the bidders to mind
what they were about, they might never again be able to secure a live
baronet at a moderate price, owing to the tightness of the money
market. Well, sir, I was honored with bids from several ladies; but
they were too timid and too honest to go beyond their means; my less
scrupulous sex soared above these considerations, and I was knocked
down for seventy-nine pounds fifteen shillings, amid loud applause at
the spirited result. My purchaser is a shop-keeper mad after gardening.
Dr. Suaby has given him a plot to cultivate, and he whispered in my
ear, 'The reason I went to a fancy price was, I can kill two birds with
one stone with you. You'll make a very good statee stuck up among my
flowers; and you can hallo, and keep those plaguy sparrows off.'"

"Oh, what creatures for my darling to live among!" cried Lady Bassett
piteously.

Mr. Rolfe stared, and said, "What, then, you are like all your sex--no
sense of humor?"

"Humor! when my husband is in misery and degradation!"

"And don't you see that the brave writer of these letters is steeled
against misery, and above degradation? Such men are not the mere sport
of circumstances. 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."