r, and the white tufts
of American blight had bedecked their trunks. The American blight was
all gone now. The blossom had set, and the fruit was swelling, and each
tree would bear exactly the right number of apples, neither more nor
less. The carnations were very large, numerous, and fragrant. The
madonna lilies promised well. There was no weed to be seen anywhere, and
the paths had been newly gravelled with the red gravel which he had
always wanted, and never been able to get. The very quality of the soil
had changed, and was now dark and rich. It was worth while to work in
such a garden as this; he took his coat off and went into the
potting-shed to get his tools.

And then he realised his blessedness. There was absolutely nothing for
him to do in the garden. It was all quite good. The drought had not
brought down the leaves nor cracked the surface. The strong winds had
not dishevelled and laid low the sunflowers. He noticed, moreover, that
things were tied up now with green bast to green sticks. He had always
wanted green bast and green sticks, but had used the other kind because
it was the only kind that the man round the corner sold.

He put on his coat and stretched himself on a deck-chair on the lawn in
the evening sunlight in a great state of contentment. When it grew dusk,
from the shrubbery at the end of the garden came beyond mistake the
voice of the nightingale. He had always wanted nightingales, but so far
he had put up with imitative blackbirds. Blessedness had come to him
indeed.

He lit a cigarette and reflected how he would show his garden to Smith,
and how much Smith would be annoyed about it. Smith had a garden of his
own, and was a toilsome amateur with a certain amount of knowledge.
Smith would undoubtedly be green with jealousy. He would ask Smith to
luncheon, and afterwards they would have coffee in the garden. He would
carefully abstain from calling Smith's attention to anything; but he
would watch him, as he slowly drank it all in and meditated suicide.

On the day that Smith was to come to luncheon, the blessed artist rose
early in order that he might mow the lawn before breakfast. But when he
went out, he found that it did not require to be mown. The grass grew to
just the right height and then stopped. At luncheon Smith was inflated
with pride, and talked freely about begonias. He mentioned other things
which he had in his garden--things that that artist ought to come and
see. The artist