gs' susceptibilities. Luckily, Jillings
and the under-gardener fell out in a fortnight.

As was only to be expected, the other servants, being equally devoted to
their mistress, could not allow Jillings to monopolize the pride and
glory of putting her under an obligation. Very soon a sort of
competition sprang up, each of them endeavouring to out-do the other in
giving Celia what they termed, aptly enough, "little surprises," till
they hit upon the happy solution of clubbing together for the purpose.
Thus Celia, having, out of the kindness of her heart, ordered an
expensive lace hood for the baby from a relation of the nurse's at
Honiton, was dismayed to discover, when the hood arrived, that it was
already paid for and was a joint gift from the domestics. After that she
felt, being Celia, that it would be too ungracious to insist on
refunding the money.

It was not until I was staying with her last Spring that I heard of all
these excesses. But at breakfast on Easter Sunday not only did Celia,
Tony and the baby each receive an enormous satin egg filled with
chocolates, but I was myself the recipient of one of these seasonable
tokens, being informed by the beaming Jillings that "we didn't want
_you_, Sir, to feel you'd been forgotten." By lunch-time it became clear
that she had succeeded in animating at least one of the local tradesmen
with this spirit of reckless liberality. For when Celia made a mild
inquiry concerning a sweetbread which she had no recollection of having
ordered Jillings explained, with what I fear I must describe as a
self-conscious smirk, that it was "a little Easter orfering from the
butcher, Madam." I am bound to say that even Celia was less scrupulous
about hurting the butcher's feelings--no doubt from an impression that
his occupation must have cured him of any over-sensitiveness.

As soon as we were alone she told me all she had been enduring, which it
seemed she had been careful not to mention in her letters to Jack. "I
simply can't tell you, Uncle," she concluded pathetically, "how wearing
it is to be constantly thanking somebody for something I'd ever so much
rather be without. And yet--what else can I do?"

I suggested that she might strictly forbid all future indulgence in
these orgies of generosity, and she supposed meekly that she should
really have to do something of that sort, though we both knew how
extremely improbable it was that she ever would.

This morning I had a letter from