ce of Nature, melted
within him.

"What are the realms of this earth, the dreams of statesmen, and all
plots and policies," he said, "compared with the beauty of this little
tree? She--or is it a he?--breathes, in her wild and simple dress, just
to be lovely and loved. He harbours the blackbird, and shakes fragrance
into the morning; and with her blossom catches the rain and the sun
drops of heaven. I see in him the witchery of God; and of her prettiness
would I make a song of redemption."

So saying he knelt down before the little tree, while Blink on her
haunches, very quiet beside him, looked wiser than many dogs.

A familiar gurgling sound roused him from his devotions, and turning his
head he saw his young neighbour in the garb of a nurse, standing on
the path behind him. "She has dropped from heaven," he thought for all
nurses are angels.

And, taking off his hat, he said:

"You surprised me at a moment of which I am not ashamed; I was communing
with Beauty. And behold! Aurora is with me."

"Say, rather, Borealis," said the young lady. "I was so fed-up with
hospital that I had to have a scamper before turning in. If you're going
home we might go together?"

"It would, indeed, be a joy," said Mr. Lavender. "The garb of mercy
becomes you."

"Do you think so?" replied the young lady, in whose cheeks a lovely
flush had not deepened. "I call it hideous. Do you always come out and
pray to that tree?"

"I am ashamed to say," returned Mr. Lavender, "that I do not. But I
intend to do so in future, since it has brought me such a vision."

And he looked with such deferential and shining eyes at his companion
that she placed the back of her hand before her mouth, and her breast
rose.

"I'm most fearfully sleepy," she said. "Have you had any adventures
lately--you and Samjoe?

"Samjoe?" repeated Mr. Lavender.

"Your chauffeur--I call him that. He's very like Sam Weller and Sancho
Panza, don't you think, Don Pickwixote?

"Ah!" said Mr. Lavender, bewildered; "Joe, you mean. A good fellow. He
has in him the sort of heroism which I admire more than any other."

"Which is that?" asked the young lady.

"That imperturbable humour in the face of adverse circumstances for
which our soldiers are renowned."

"You are a great believer in heroics, Don Pickwixote," said the young
lady.

"What would life be without them?" returned Mr. Lavender. "The war could
not go on for a minute."

"You're right there," said the