rheumatism, but no sooner had the stricken old gentleman’s head appeared above the fence than out it came.

“Morning, Mr. Williams.”

“Morning, Tom.”

Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:—

“How’s the rheumatism, Mr. Williams?”

“Better, thank’ee, Tom.”

And there he was, with his guns spiked.

However, he did not give up. He brought to his wooing the same determination which had made him second gardener at the Hall at twenty-five. He was a novice at the game, but instinct told him that a good line of action was to shower gifts. He did so. All he had to shower was vegetables, and he showered them in a way that would have caused the goddess Ceres to be talked about. His garden became a perfect crater, erupting vegetables. Why vegetables? I think I hear some heckler cry. Why not flowers—fresh, fair, fragrant flowers? You can do a lot with flowers. Girls love them. There is poetry in them. And, what is more, there is a recognised language of flowers. Shoot in a rose, or a calceolaria, or an herbaceous border, or something, I gather, and you have made a formal proposal of marriage without any of the trouble of rehearsing a long speech and practising appropriate gestures in front of your bedroom looking-glass. Why, then, did not Thomas Kitchener give Sally Preston flowers? Well, you see, unfortunately, it was now late autumn, and there were no flowers. Nature had temporarily exhausted her floral blessings, and was jogging along with potatoes and artichokes and things. Love is like that. It invariably comes just at the wrong time. A few months before there had been enough roses in Tom Kitchener’s garden to win the hearts of a dozen girls. Now there were only vegetables. ’Twas ever thus.

It was not to be expected that a devotion so practically displayed should escape comment. This was supplied by that shrewd observer, old Mr. Williams. He spoke seriously to Tom across the fence on the subject of his passion.

“Young Tom,” he said, “drop it.”

Tom muttered unintelligibly. Mr. Williams adjusted the top-hat without which he never stirred abroad, even into his garden. He blinked benevolently at Tom.

“You’re making up to that young gal of Jane’s,” he proceeded. “You can’t deceive me. All these p’taties, and what not. I seen your game fast enough. Just you drop it, young Tom.”

“Why?” muttered Tom, rebelliously. A sudden distaste for old Mr. Williams blazed within him.

“Why? ’Cos you’ll only burn your fingers if you don’t, that’s why. I been watching this young gal of Jane’s, and I seen what sort of a young gal she be. She’s a flipperty piece, that’s what she be. You marry that young gal, Tom, and you’ll never have no more quiet and happiness. She’d just take and turn the place upsy-down on you. The man as marries that young gal has got to be master in his own home. He’s got to show her what’s what. Now, you ain’t got the devil in you to do that, Tom. You’re what I might call a sort of a sheep. I admires it in you, Tom. I like to see a young man steady and quiet, same as what you be. So that’s how it is, you see. Just you drop this foolishness, young Tom, and leave that young gal be, else you’ll burn your fingers, same as what I say.”

And, giving his top-hat a rakish tilt, the old gentleman ambled indoors, satisfied that he had dropped a guarded hint in a pleasant and tactful manner.