ad the least idea in the world of the satire on the student of
the Order of Things implied in his invitation to the "amatoor." As for
the Master, he stood fire perfectly, as he always does; but the idea
that he, who had worked a considerable part of several seasons at
examining and preparing insects, who believed himself to have given a
new tabanus to the catalogue of native diptera, the idea that he was
playing with science, and might be trusted anywhere as a harmless
amateur, from whom no expert could possibly fear any anticipation of his
unpublished discoveries, went beyond anything set down in that book of
his which contained so much of the strainings of his wisdom.

The poor little Scarabee began fidgeting round about this time, and
uttering some half-audible words, apologetical, partly, and involving an
allusion to refreshments. As he spoke, he opened a small cupboard, and
as he did so out bolted an uninvited tenant of the same, long in person,
sable in hue, and swift of movement, on seeing which the Scarabee simply
said, without emotion, blatta, but I, forgetting what was due to good
manners, exclaimed cockroach!

We could not make up our minds to tax the Scarabee's hospitality,
already levied upon by the voracious articulate. So we both alleged a
state of utter repletion, and did not solve the mystery of the contents
of the cupboard,--not too luxurious, it may be conjectured, and yet
kindly offered, so that we felt there was a moist filament of the
social instinct running like a nerve through that exsiccated and almost
anhydrous organism.

We left him with professions of esteem and respect which were real. We
had gone, not to scoff, but very probably to smile, and I will not say
we did not. But the Master was more thoughtful than usual.

--If I had not solemnly dedicated myself to the study of the Order of
Things,--he said,--I do verily believe I would give what remains to
me of life to the investigation of some single point I could utterly
eviscerate and leave finally settled for the instruction and, it may be,
the admiration of all coming time. The keel ploughs ten thousand leagues
of ocean and leaves no trace of its deep-graven furrows. The chisel
scars only a few inches on the face of a rock, but the story it has
traced is read by a hundred generations. The eagle leaves no track of
his path, no memory of the place where he built his nest; but a patient
mollusk has bored a little hole in a marble column of