the existence of
which he now believed as firmly as in that of his own garden. The
spirit-land was fast becoming a reality to him, and although he had
never beheld the glories of its scenery he had actually had a visit
from two of its inhabitants. That, he thought, constituted the
difference between Aunt Charlotte and himself. She believed in some
place she called heaven, and had a vague notion that it was like a
sort of religious transformation-scene, millions of miles away, up
somewhere in the sky. He, on the contrary, knew that the spirit-world
was all around him, because he had had ocular as well as intuitive
demonstration of its proximity.

It must not be supposed, however, that he sank into a state of mystic
contemplation that unfitted him for every-day life. On the contrary,
he took more interest in his physical surroundings than ever. It was
now October, and he threw himself with almost feverish energy into the
garden-work belonging to that month. There were potted carnations to
be removed into warmth and shelter, hyacinths and tulips for the
spring bloom to be planted in different beds, roses and honeysuckles
to be carefully and scientifically pruned, and dead leaves to be
plucked off everywhere. His fragile health prevented him from helping
in the more onerous tasks, but he followed Lubin about indefatigably,
watching everything he did with eager vigilance, whether he was
planting ranunculuses and anemones, or clipping hedges, or trimming
evergreens; while he himself was fain to be content with pruning and
budding, and directing how the plants should be most fitly set. He
said he wanted the show of flowers next year to be a triumph of
gardencraft. The garden was a sort of holy of holies to him, and he
tended it, and planned for it, and worked in it more enthusiastically
than he had ever done before. This interest in common things was
gratifying to Aunt Charlotte, who distrusted and discouraged his
dwelling on what she called the uncanny side of life; but she was
anxious, at the same time, that he should not overtax his strength,
and gave secret orders to Lubin to see that the young master did not
allow his ardour to outrun the dictates of discretion.

One afternoon, Austin, who was feeling unusually tired, was lying in
an easy-chair in the drawing-room with a book. He had been all the
morning standing about in the garden, and after lunch Aunt Charlotte
had put her foot down, and peremptorily forbidden him to