to themselves always talk to the devil. Go and tell him all
about it. Go, go! run!" cried Tant Sannie.

But the boy neither quickened nor slackened his pace, and passed
sullenly round the back of the wagon-house.

Books have been thrown at other heads before and since that summer
afternoon, by hands more white and delicate than those of the
Boer-woman; but whether the result of the process has been in any case
wholly satisfactory, may be questioned. We love that with a peculiar
tenderness, we treasure it with a peculiar care, it has for us quite
a fictitious value, for which we have suffered. If we may not carry it
anywhere else we will carry it in our hearts, and always to the end.

Bonaparte Blenkins went to pick up the volume, now loosened from its
cover, while Tant Sannie pushed the stumps of wood further into the
oven. Bonaparte came close to her, tapped the book knowingly, nodded,
and looked at the fire. Tant Sannie comprehended, and, taking the volume
from his hand, threw it into the back of the oven. It lay upon the heap
of coals, smoked, flared, and blazed, and the "Political Economy" was no
more--gone out of existence, like many another poor heretic of flesh and
blood.

Bonaparte grinned, and to watch the process brought his face so near
the oven door that the white hair on his eyebrows got singed. He then
inquired if there were any more in the loft.

Learning that there were, he made signs indicative of taking up armfuls
and flinging them into the fire. But Tant Sannie was dubious. The
deceased Englishman had left all his personal effects specially to his
child. It was all very well for Bonaparte to talk of burning the books.
He had had his hair spiritually pulled, and she had no wish to repeat
his experience.

She shook her head. Bonaparte was displeased. But then a happy thought
occurred to him. He suggested that the key of the loft should henceforth
be put into his own safe care and keeping--no one gaining possession of
it without his permission. To this Tant Sannie readily assented, and the
two walked lovingly to the house to look for it.

Chapter 1.XII. He Bites.

Bonaparte Blenkins was riding home on the grey mare. He had ridden out
that afternoon, partly for the benefit of his health, partly to
maintain his character as overseer of the farm. As he rode on slowly, he
thoughtfully touched the ears of the grey mare with his whip.

"No, Bon, my boy," he addressed himself, "don't propose! You