great Creator
is pleased with me for having brought this work to perfection, and the
thought gives me great peace of mind."

"It does sound a little presumptuous, John," said the young lady.

"Not in the way I mean it," replied John. "We are told that God gives
abundantly of the fruits and blossoms that gladden our hearts and eyes.
But this is only partly true. There may be some lands where nothing need
be done to these God-given fruits and vegetables and flowers. I do not
know. But in this happy land, although he does abundantly give us the
material to work upon, he expects us to do the work. Else what would be
the use of gardens? And if there were no need of gardens there would be
no gardens; and how desolate would life be without gardens!"

"I see what you mean, John," said the young lady. "We could not go into
the woods, or on to the plains, and find the fruits and vegetables that
grow so well in this garden. If they were there at all they would be
poor and undeveloped."

"Exactly so," said John. "And in my garden I garner up God's gifts; and
I select the best, and then the best of the best, and so on and on; and
I watch, oh, so carefully, for everything hurtful; and I water; and I
prune off the dead branches; and enrich the ground. And so I work and
work, with God's help of the sunshine and the rain; and at last, when it
all comes to what we see to-day, I cannot but feel that God is pleased
with me for bringing about the fruition he knew I could accomplish with
the material given by what some people call nature and I call God. That
is what a garden is for, and in that way it glorifies him."

They were both silent for some time. The young girl was thinking that
while all that John had said was true, she could not, like him, love
this season best of all. Its very perfection and full fruition were
saddening, for that must inevitably be followed by decay. The old man
was thinking that while youth and its promise for the future was
beautiful, the resignation and peacefulness of an accomplished life was
far more beautiful.

The red thrush broke into song and startled them both. The old man
listened to it as if it were a paean of thanksgiving for the garden and
all that it had given, and wished he were able to join his voice with
the music of the bird. As the young girl listened it seemed to her that
the song was as clear and sweet and happy as it had been in the spring.
And she marvelled.

"What a pity! We have