"In this world," she replied, "one has to put up with lots of things." And while she said that, her face grew very sad. When the bell rang for prayers we stood together, and when the hymn was sung I listened to the soft melancholy note that trembled in the girl's voice. The next morning I decided to go to the British Museum, since they all told me "everyone ought to see that." It was only a few minutes' walk from the home, so I did not have to make many inquiries about the way. When I arrived at the entrance I was charmed with the countless pigeons, which seemed to be quite tame and fearless, even taking food out of the people's hands. I should have loved to remain there and watch the sweet, graceful birds, but there was something within that reproached me for my indifference towards the treasures of the British Museum itself. In order to quiet that something, I at last mounted the steps leading to the different rooms. I am sorry to say that my knowledge is far too small to appreciate the treasures accumulated in these rooms. I remember innumerable things, black from age, lying behind glass cases; their meaning and value, however, I did not understand. When I entered the room with the Egyptian mummies I felt the same reverence that I felt as a child on entering a church, and I only dared to walk about on tip-toe. That respect passed, however, the longer I gazed at the dark, lean faces, and finally they seemed to me to be no more than large babies put in swaddling clothes. There in front of me, a glass case held the last remains of a King--a hand adorned with yellow rings. Once upon a time that same hand had moved imperiously, and a thousand slaves had trembled at the sign. "Where is thy country to-day--where thy army, and where art thou thyself, oh mighty King? And what, oh tell me, became of all thy agonies, and what became of all thy joys?" Thus I questioned the dark hand with its yellow rings, and the reply I found was a conviction new to me. That there does not exist a real self--that God has not finished His creation yet--that we are the means towards an object, but not the object itself. After much wandering to and fro, I arrived at a room that also contained glass cases, to which large and small pieces of brown paper were carefully pinned. At first I looked at them with wondering curiosity, but next minute I was overcome with awe. The brown pieces of paper were papyrus, which I had often heard of, but never seen. There were several of them, but I returned again and again to the one above which stood the following inscription: "Papyrus with five verses of an ode by Sappho to her brother Charaxus."