It is in the nature of men and angels to pursue with death such birds as are uncommon, such animals as are rare; and Society had no use for one like Tod, so uncut to its pattern as to be practically unconscious of its existence.  Not that he had deliberately turned his back on anything; he had merely begun as a very young man to keep bees.  The better to do that he had gone on to the cultivation of flowers and fruit, together with just enough farming as kept his household in vegetables, milk, butter, and eggs.  Living thus amongst insects, birds, cows, and the peace of trees, he had become queer.  His was not a very reflective mind, it distilled but slowly certain large conclusions, and followed intently the minute happenings of his little world.  To him a bee, a bird, a flower, a tree was well-nigh as interesting as a man; yet men, women, and especially children took to him, as one takes to a Newfoundland dog, because, though capable of anger, he seemed incapable of contempt, and to be endowed with a sort of permanent wonder at things.  Then, too, he was good to look at, which counts for more than a little in the scales of our affections; indeed, the slight air of absence in his blue eyes was not chilling, as is that which portends a wandering of its owner on his own business.  People recognized that it meant some bee or other in that bonnet, or elsewhere, some sound or scent or sight of life, suddenly perceived—­always of life!  He had often been observed gazing with peculiar gravity at a dead flower, bee, bird, or beetle, and, if spoken to at such a moment, would say, “Gone!” touching a wing or petal with his finger.  To conceive of what happened after death did not apparently come within the few large conclusions of his reflective powers.  That quaint grief of his in the presence of the death of things that were not human had, more than anything, fostered a habit among the gentry and clergy of the neighborhood of drawing up the mouth when they spoke of him, and slightly raising the shoulders.  For the cottagers, to be sure, his eccentricity consisted rather in his being a ‘gentleman,’ yet neither eating flesh, drinking wine, nor telling them how they ought to behave themselves, together with the way he would sit down on anything and listen to what they had to tell him, without giving them the impression that he was proud of himself for doing so.  In fact, it was the extraordinary impression he made of listening and answering without wanting anything either for himself or for them, that they could not understand.  How on earth it came about that he did not give them advice about their politics, religion, morals, or monetary states, was to them a never-ending mystery; and though they were too well bred to shrug their shoulders, there did lurk in their dim minds the suspicion that ‘the good gentleman,’ as they called him, was ‘a tiddy-bit off.’  He had, of course, done many practical little things toward helping them and their beasts, but always,