spectful
enthusiasm.

"I brought you these," he said, opening a brown leather bag and
extracting a few dried roots. "I saw an advertisement. I forget the
name of them, but they have beautiful trumpet-shaped flowers. They are
free growers, and grow yards and yards the first year."

"And miles and miles the second," said Mr. Hartley, regarding them with
extraordinary ferocity. "Bindweed is the name, and once get it in your
garden and you'll never get rid of it."

"That wasn't the name in the advertisement," said the other, dubiously.

"I don't suppose it was," said Hartley. "You've got a lot to learn in
gardening yet, Saunders."

"Yes, sir," said the other; "I've got a good teacher, though."

Mr. Hartley almost blushed. "And how is your garden getting on?" he
inquired.

"It's--it's getting on," said Mr. Saunders, vaguely.

"I must come and have a look at it," said Hartley.

"Not yet," said the young man, hastily. "Not yet. I shouldn't like you
to see it just yet. Is Miss Hartley well?"

Mr. Hartley said she was, and, in an abstracted fashion, led the way
down the garden to where an enormous patch of land--or so it seemed to
Mr. Saunders--awaited digging. The latter removed his coat and, hanging
it with great care on an apple tree, turned back his cuffs and seized
the fork.

"It's grand exercise," said Mr. Hartley, after watching him for some
time.

"Grand," said Mr. Saunders, briefly.

"As a young man I couldn't dig enough," continued the other, "but
nowadays it gives me a crick in the back."

"Always?" inquired Mr. Saunders, with a slight huskiness.

"Always," said Mr. Hartley. "But I never do it now; Joan won't let me."

Mr. Saunders sighed at the name and resumed his digging. "Miss Hartley
out?" he asked presently, in a casual voice.

"Yes; she won't be home till late," said the other. "We can have a
fine evening's work free of interruptions. I'll go and get on with my
weeding."

He moved off and resumed his task; Mr. Saunders, with a suppressed
groan, went on with his digging. The ground got harder and harder and
his back seemed almost at breaking-point. At intervals he had what
gardeners term a "straight-up," and with his face turned toward the
house listened intently for any sounds that might indicate the return of
its mistress.

"Half-past eight," said Hartley at last; "time to knock off. I've put a
few small plants in your bag for you; better put them in in the morning
before you start of