aw
has promised me. He is a very silent Irishman--a little
alarming--possibly from the rather brief, authoritative ways which men
who have worked big parishes in big towns often get. When Rex said to
him, at luncheon--"How did you who are a Rose Fancier and such a flower
maniac--LIVE all those years in such a part of London?" in rather a
muttered sort of way he explained,

"Well, I had a friend a little out of town who had a garden, and his
wife wanted flowers, and they knew nothing about it: so I made a
compact. I provided the roses--I made the soil--I planted them--and I
used to go and prune them and look after them. They were
_magnificent_".

"Oh, then you _had_ flowers?"

"Well, I made a compact. They never picked a rose on Saturday. On
Saturday night I used to go and clear the place. I had roses over my
church on Sundays--and all Festivals. The rest of the year his wife
had them."

It struck me as a most touching story--for the man is Rose Maniac.
What a sight those roses must have been to the eyes of such a
congregation! The Church should have been dedicated to S. Dorothea! He
is of the most modest order of Paddies--and as I say a little
alarming. I was _appalled_ when I saw the _hedge_ of the
"finest-named" roses he brought, and it was very difficult to "give
thanks" adequately!--I said once--"I really simply cannot tell you
the pleasure you have given me." He said rather grumpily--"You've
given me pleasure enough--and to lots of others." Then he suddenly
_chirped_ up and said--"Laetus cost me _2s. 6d._ though. My wife bet
me _2s. 6d._ I couldn't read it aloud without crying. I thought I
could. But after a page or two--I put my hand in my pocket--I
said--There! take your half-crown, and let me cry comfortably when I
want to!!!"

My dear, what a screed I have written to you!!

But your letter this morning _was_ a pleasure. There is something so
nice in your getting the very hut where--as I think--"Old Father"
first began to recover after Cyprus-fever. I wish you had had F. to
stride about the old lines also--and knock his head against your
door-tops!--Best love to R., F., and the Queers--

Your loving, J.H.E.

Dec. 3, 1883.

MY DEAREST MARNY,

You are always so forbearing!--and I have been driven to a degree by
work which I had promised, and have just despatched! Some day it may
appeal to "the Queers." For it is a collated (and Bowdlerized!)
version of the old Peace Egg Mumming Play for Christm