for in my house the one basks in his long sleep, and the other
plies his busy loom secure and undisturbed. I have a pleasure in
thinking on a summer's day how many butterflies have sprung for the
first time into light and sunshine from some dark corner of these
old walls.

When I first came to live here, which was many years ago, the
neighbours were curious to know who I was, and whence I came, and
why I lived so much alone. As time went on, and they still
remained unsatisfied on these points, I became the centre of a
popular ferment, extending for half a mile round, and in one
direction for a full mile. Various rumours were circulated to my
prejudice. I was a spy, an infidel, a conjurer, a kidnapper of
children, a refugee, a priest, a monster. Mothers caught up their
infants and ran into their houses as I passed; men eyed me
spitefully, and muttered threats and curses. I was the object of
suspicion and distrust - ay, of downright hatred too.

But when in course of time they found I did no harm, but, on the
contrary, inclined towards them despite their unjust usage, they
began to relent. I found my footsteps no longer dogged, as they
had often been before, and observed that the women and children no
longer retreated, but would stand and gaze at me as I passed their
doors. I took this for a good omen, and waited patiently for
better times. By degrees I began to make friends among these
humble folks; and though they were yet shy of speaking, would give
them 'good day,' and so pass on. In a little time, those whom I
had thus accosted would make a point of coming to their doors and
windows at the usual hour, and nod or courtesy to me; children,
too, came timidly within my reach, and ran away quite scared when I