"How sweet that smoke is, Georgiana," I said, rousing us both, and
feeling sure that she will understand me in whatsoever figure I may
speak. "And how much we are wasting when we change this old oak back
into his elements--smoke and light, heat and ashes. What a magnificent
work he was on natural history, requiring hundreds of years for his
preparation and completion, written in a language so learned that not
the wisest can read him wisely, and enduringly bound in the finest of
tree calf! It is a dishonor to speak of him as a work. He was a
doctor of philosophy! He should have been a college professor! Think
how he could have used his own feet for a series of lectures on the
laws of equilibrium, capillary attraction, or soils and moisture! Was
there ever a head that knew as much as his about the action of light?
Did any human being ever more grandly bear the burdens of life or
better face the tempests of the world? What did he not know about
birds? He had carried them in his arms and nurtured them in his bosom
for a thousand years. Even his old coat, with all its rents and
patches--what roll of papyrus was ever so crowded with the secrets of
knowledge? The august antiquarian! The old king! Can you imagine a
funeral urn too noble for his ashes? But to what base uses, Georgiana!
He will not keep the wind away any longer; we shall change him into a
kettle of lye with which to whiten our floors."

What Georgiana's reply could have been I do not know, for at that
moment Mrs. Walters flitted in.

"I saw through the windows that you had a fire," she said, volubly,
"and ran over to get warm. And, oh! yes, I wanted to tell you--"

"Stop, _please_, Mrs. Walters!" I cried, starting towards her with an
outstretched hand and a warning laugh. "You have not yet been formally