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148
The Country of the Pointed Firs
·
Sarah Orne Jewett
15
“My
quotation
was
from
Paradise
Lost:
the
greatest
of
poems,
I
suppose
you
know?”
and
I
nodded.
“There's
nothing
that
ranks,
to
my
mind,
with
Paradise
Lost;
it's
all
lofty,
all
lofty,”
he
continued.
“Shakespeare
was
a
great
poet;
he
copied
life,
but
you
have
to
put
up
with
a
great
deal
of
low
talk.”
I
now
remembered
that
Mrs.
Todd
had
told
me
one
day
that
Captain
Littlepage
had
overset
his
mind
with
too
much
reading;
she
had
also
made
dark
reference
to
his
having
“spells”
of
some
unexplainable
nature.
I
could
not
help
wondering
what
errand
had
brought
him
out
in
search
of
me.
There
was
something
quite
charming
in
his
appearance:
it
was
a
face
thin
and
delicate
with
refinement,
but
worn
into
appealing
lines,
as
if
he
had
suffered
from
loneliness
and
misapprehension.
He
looked,
with
his
careful
precision
of
dress,
as
if
he
were
the
object
of
cherishing
care
on
the
part
of
elderly
unmarried
sisters,
but
I
knew
Mari'
Harris
to
be
a
very
common-place,
inelegant
person,
who
would
have
no
such
standards;
it
was
plain
that
the
captain
was
his
own
attentive
valet.
He
sat
looking
at
me
expectantly.
I
could
not
help
thinking
that,
with
his
queer
head
and
length
of
thinness,
he
was
made
to
hop
along
the
road
of
life
rather
than
to
walk.
The
captain
was
very
grave
indeed,
and
I
bade
my
inward
spirit
keep
close
to
discretion.
“Poor
Mrs.
Begg
has
gone,”
I
ventured
to
say.
I
still
wore
my
Sunday
gown
by
way
of
showing
respect.
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