I cowered in the corner.
“You fools!” cried my wife, “it’s the baker with the bread.”
Six o’clock.
She went to throw back the shutters, but ere it was done, a cry came from Julia. There, half in and half out its crack, there wriggled the bug, flashing in the room’s general dimness, like a fiery opal.
Had this bug had a tiny sword by its side—a Damascus sword—and a tiny necklace round its neck—a diamond necklace—and a tiny gun in its claw—brass gun—and a tiny manuscript in its mouth—a Chaldee manuscript—Julia and Anna could not have stood more charmed.
In truth, it was a beautiful bug—a Jew jeweler’s bug—a bug like a sparkle of a glorious sunset.
Julia and Anna had never dreamed of such a bug. To them, bug had been a word synonymous with hideousness. But this was a seraphical bug; or rather, all it had of the bug was the B, for it was beautiful as a butterfly.
Julia and Anna gazed and gazed. They were no more alarmed. They were delighted.
“But how got this strange, pretty creature into the table?” cried Julia.
“Spirits can get anywhere,” replied Anna.