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.
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