sat quite meekly, and was very polite until luncheon was
over. Then he said: "I think we might have coffee in the garden, Smith,
if you call that backyard of mine a garden."

"Ah," said Smith, "you should give a little more time and attention to
it."

Then they passed out into the garden, and Smith was struck dumb. At last
he said: "How do you manage to get those fine dark wallflowers in full
bloom at the end of June?"

"Takes a bit of management," said the blessed artist complacently.

Smith began to walk round the garden. He admired exceedingly. The
confession that he had got nothing like that escaped him frequently; and
when he had seen it all, he pulled from one pocket an old envelope and
from another a short stubb of a pencil.

"Look here," he said, "you might just give me the name of the chap who
does your garden for you."

"The angels do my garden for me," said the blessed artist.

"Oh, all right," said Smith, "if you don't want to tell me, you
needn't."

And he put back the old envelope and the pencil in their respective
pockets, and he went away in a very bad temper. But this incident
reminded the blessed artist to countermand the jobbing gardener--a man
of intemperate habits and quite unfit to collaborate with angels.

The next day the artist went into his garden and enjoyed it extremely.

The day after he enjoyed it less.

The day after that he began to be dissatisfied. Dissatisfaction began to
settle like a cloud upon him. He wondered why. It came to him slowly
that he felt like a man who had stolen the Victoria Cross and was
wearing it ostentatiously. He was exhibiting a perfection for which he
had never worked; and there was no savour in it.

"Better," he cried, "imperfection towards which one has contributed
something. Better even the sickly wilderness that this garden once was."

The sound of his own voice woke him.

He found that he was sitting in a deck-chair on the lawn. It was a
decayed chair, having been left out in many rains. The lawn was just as
bad as ever it had been. He could almost hear the caterpillars crunching
up the surrounding vegetation. One glance showed him that his rose trees
were still a shame and a reproach. And down the steps from the house
came his old friend Smith, smiling and rubicund.

"Been asleep in this rotten old garden of yours?" he said. "It looks to
me as if you would have done better if you had been working in it."

"I am inclined to think so," said