hing, spoke to no
one except when questioned.

His father and Marie often tried to coax him into conversation.

In answer he sometimes said "Bah! life is but an empty bubble,"
oftener, he said nothing at all, but gazed fixedly at the floor all
the time.

A few days after the manager had spoken to him, he ceased to go to
work altogether. He did not send a letter to his employers, telling
them of his intention to leave; of what use was it? everything was
nothing to him.

It was not for his departed mother that he grieved. He grieved not.
He hardly gave her a thought now, and, when he did, his eyes seemed
to brighten up and his lips muttered: "Thou art happy."

The doctor who examined him shrugged his shoulders. "Hypochondria,"
he said as he met the enquiring glance of Mr. Mathers; then he
added: "He will probably be better in a few weeks."

The neighbours, without being consulted, said: "He is mad."

The days came and went, and after a few months of melancholiness he
grew a little bit better. His father noticed that he began to take
an interest in the culture of the garden.

"I shall have to find work for him," thought Mr. Mathers, and, one
day, when his son seemed in a more joyous mood than usual, he spoke
to him.

"Do you think that if I built a greenhouse you could take care of
it?" he questioned.

"I think so," said his son.

"Work is slack just now," went on Mr. Mathers, "I might as well put
up one in the garden as do nothing."

"I think I should very much like to grow tomatoes and grapes," Frank
remarked.

"You feel better now, then," said the father. These were the first
words which he ventured to speak to his son about his health, now
that the latter's senses seemed to have returned to him.

"Have I been ill?" said Frank; and then after a pause----"Of course,
I have not been very well lately,--yes, I am better, I think I am
myself again."

"Well;" said his father, "it is agreed, we shall have a greenhouse.
I think you had better go in the garden and see if you can find
something to do there."

Frank did as he was requested. The garden at the back of the house
was a small one, covering some twenty-five perches; of these eight
were to be blessed, or cursed, with a glass covering.

While Frank was engaged in tying up some Chrysanthemums, he was
joined by Marie, the servant.

"Doin' a bit o' work, Master Frank," she said.

"Yes, a little," he replied.

"Well, that's better than mopin' abou