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sides to fight it out more according to their strength, without calling in the catechism." "No doubt," he said, answering her according to her parable: "the best and the worst of places, where both sides, good and bad, are at it for all they are worth, with the powers that be as a mere bottle-holder. Can anybody be sure which side is going to win?" "Can anybody doubt it?" she said. "A free fight of that sort might shake some of us to pieces. If all are born to the conflict, they are born to the weapons, too." "What a reason for ruining a man-because he has shown want of respect!" "If you come to that, what a reason for ruining him because he wants brains!"

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This sally helped him to recover his temper, by restoring Augusta to him in all her glory. The curious by-play of their little scene was that the more he opposed, the more she insisted; and as she insisted, the more he felt the charm of the almost coquettish wilfulness of self-respect with which she had originally won him. Say, if you like, that he was the more ready to be impressed by it in matters of this sort because, in others, he was perfectly tired of the claims of his blazon.

He yielded a point. "I can't always do as I please. Who could, standing in my shoes?" She felt for him, yet she could hardly bring herself to say so there and then. She knew that at times, with the solitary exception. that was the all in all for her, he was doomed to be almost as free from personal longings, personal initiative, as the hero of the Bhagavad. It was his business, as a patron of his portion of the human race, to like what ought to be liked in rigid social convention, to do what ought to be done. Since her marriage she had been a silent but sympathetic observer of these trials of a fellowcreature who was everlastingly doing his duty. He was not merely lord lieutenant of his county with his birth, his wealth, his position, there was no escaping that. He was a commanding officer of volunteers and of yeomanry; he held the commission of the peace, and frequently sat in the chair

of justice at quarter-sessions. He patronized justice as he patronized the auxiliary forces, and as, in another and a more technical sense, he patronized the church by nominating to some four-and-twenty pulpits. He bred impartially for the course and for the cattle shows. It seemed all one to him, since the region in which his lot was cast was above that of personal tastes. It was his pride that one could never tell what he liked best from his manner of doing it. The only clue to his preference was to be found when he happened to travel beyond the circle of social obligations. Thus, while foundation-stones were hardly to be attributed to him as creature comforts, there was a certain taint of relish in his freemasonry. He bought pictures, statuary, curios, without caring a fiddlestick about them, and simply by way of being civil to the arts. His wife's after-knowledge of all this showed her by what a mighty effort he must have broken one link of his chain when he stood forth before all the world to say: "This is the woman of my choice."

But he had said it; and how could she fail in grateful remembrance of it now? "I understand everything," she said with great tenderness. "I leave it in your hands."

In spite of claims that, with her, were as those of birthright, she was still ready to yield to love what she might have refused to principle-full of most delicious contradictions in that way, and therefore the true woman still, or perhaps, after all, only the true human being. Her whole anxiety now was to save him from the pain of the conflict which she had raised in his mind.

"See these poor old people," she said; "hear their story. If you are satisfied, leave the rest to me. You need not appear in it at all."

But he was now, if possible, keener than herself.

"Better find the young people at once, and get it at first hand. The rest will be my part." And he led her to the door.

It was Augusta's triumph, whatever the issue. With all the higher claims, luckily, it is the greater the sacrifice the greater the joy. The smug religions perish: the faiths that are to supplant them wisely begin by calling for volunteers for martyrdom. Happy the nation whose women are never afraid to ask!

(To be continued)

66

JOSEPH

BY EDEN PHILLPOTTS

DO love they stuckit plants," said Mr. Joseph Hannaford.

He waved his hands toward some lettuces of a fat figure and plump proportions. "Doan't want no work-that's why," answered Matthew Smallridge. "The straggly sort be better, but they axes for tying up an' trouble."

"Ezacally so. An' a man as goes out of his way to sow trouble be a fule, Matthew," retorted Joseph, triumphantly.

The two old gardeners met every day, and every day differed on affairs of horticulture and life. Joseph was stout, with a red face set in a white frill of whisker. He had a rabbit mouth, a bald brow, and a mighty constitutional capacity for idleness. He loved to talk. He had a fine theory that we do not leave enough to nature in matters of the garden. He himself treated nature like a gardener's boy and overworked her shamefully.

Mr. Smallridge, the squire's gardener, enjoyed a different habit of body and mind. He was a man who lived for work and loved it; he read the journals proper to his business; he kept his subordinates up to their labors from morn till eve; and idleness he loathed as the worst sin to be laid at the door of any agriculturist, great or small. Mr. Hannaford also alleged that the literature of his business was agreeable to him, but no man possessed sure proofs that he could either read or write.

These two were ancient men, yet not old for Dartmoor, where those of hardy stock who have weathered the ordeal of infancy usually advance far into the vale of years before their taking off. Joseph attributed his excellent health and spirits to a proper sense of what was due to himself in the matter of rest; while Matthew, on the other hand, assigned his physical and mental

prosperity to hard work and temperance. Now the men stood together in Joseph's little garden and discussed general questions.

"If us was all your way of thinking, theer 'd be no progress, an' never a new pea growed an' never a new potato taken to a show," said Mr. Smallridge.

"I hate shows," answered Joseph. ""Tis flying in the face of nature an' God Almighty, all this struggling for size. If he 'd 'a' meant to grow twenty peas in a pod, an' all so big as cherries, he 'd have done it wi' a turn o' the wrist. He did n't do it, an' for us worms to try an' go awver the Lord in the matter of garden-stuff be so bad as bad can be. 'T was that very thing I fell out with the Reverend Truman awver. 'I be gwaine to show grapes, Joseph,' he said to me last year; an' I nodded an' said, 'Ess, sir,' an' went my even way. Us did n't show. Then 't was chrysanths. Weern't satisfied wi' a nice, small, stuggy bloom, as nature meant, but must be pinching, an' potting, an' messing with soot an' dirt, an' watering twice a day—ten months' toil for two months' pleasure. Then what? A gert, ramshackly auld blossom like a mop dipped in a pail o' paint. However, I let un do the work, an' what credit was about I got myself. Not that I wanted it."

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As true a Christian your master was as ever walked in a garden, however," declared Mr. Smallridge. "I hope the new parson will prove so gude."

"I be gwaine to see him this very day," answered Joseph. "T is my hope he 'll take me on to the vicarage, for the plaace would n't be the plaace without me up theer. I knaw every blade of grass an' gooseberry bush in it-a very beautivul, shady kitchen-garden 't is, too."

"An' well out of sight of the sitting-room windows," said Matthew Smallridge, grimly.

"As a kitchen-garden should be," assented Joseph. "Gude times they was," he continued, "an' I only hopes the Reverend Truman have got such a fine garden an' such a' honest man in it as he had here."

"But no li'l' maid to go round with him, poor soul!"

"A bright child Mary his darter was. Impatient also-like youth ever is. Her'd bring me plants to coddle, an' expect me to waste my precious time looking after her rubbish. Then a thing would be struck for death, along of want of water or what not, an' her 'd come to me wi' her li'l' face all clouded. 'Can't 'e make it well again, Joseph ?' her 'd say; an' I 'd say, 'No, missy; 't is all up wi' thicky geranium,' or whatever 't was. "T is gwaine home.' An' her 'd stamp her li'l' foot so savage an' ferocious, an' say: 'But it must n't go home! I don't want it to go home! 'T is your business not to let it go home!' Poor little maiden!"

"An' now she 've gone home herself." "Ess. Did n't mean to be rude to an auld man. But of course I could n't be bothered with such trash. As to watering, I always leave it to nature. Who be us that we should knaw better what things want than her do?"

66

'Nature caan't water green stuff onder glass, can her?"

"No; then why put it onder glass? All this here talk 'bout glass houses is vanity an' flying in the face of Providence. If 't was meant that grapes an' tree-ferns an' 'zaleas an' hothouse stuff was to flourish in England, they 'd be here doing of it on every mountain-side. Us takes too much 'pon ourselves. Same with prayers. What be prayer most times but trying to get the A'mighty round to our way of thinking? We 'm too busy,—most of us,-an' that's the truth."

"Jimmery!" exclaimed Matthew. "I never did in all my born days hear tell of the like o' you! You won't work an' you won't pray-'t is terrible. All the same, if you don't get the vicarage again, an' come as onder-gardener to the squire, as he 've offered you, I tell you frankly, friends though we be, that you 'll have to work."

"I know it very well, Matt," said Mr. Hannaford. "Your way an' mine be different, root an' branch; an' I pray God as I may not have to work onder you, for

I'd hate it properly, an' that 's the truth. An' I do work, an' I do pray likewise; an' I'd back my chance of going up aloft with my last shirt, if there was any to take the bet. You 'm too self-righteous along of your high wages-"

"Joseph! 't is time you put on your black," cried a voice from the cottage door.

Here grew a feeble honeysuckle that had been nailed up four years before, and still struggled gamely with a north aspect and neglect.

On the other side of the doorway was a thrush in a cage. It appeared too spiritless even to mount its wooden perch, but sat on the floor of its prison, listlessly pecked at nothing, and sympathized with the honeysuckle.

Mrs. Hannaford had a thin, flat figure, a hard mouth, keen eyes, and a face like a fowl. Tremendous force of character marked her pale visage. The curls that hung three on each side of her narrow forehead looked like steel shavings.

"Dress," she said, "an' be quick about it. Ah, Mr. Smallridge-helping Joseph to waste his time."

Not me, ma'am; that's about the only job he does n't want helping with. I've just been telling your man that if Mr. Budd to the vicarage doan't need him, an' he takes squire's offer an' comes to me, theer must be more work an' less talk."

"The new parson will want him," said Mrs. Hannaford, decidedly. "Who should stick a spade in that earth after forty years if not Joseph ?"

"Very plants would cry out if anybody else was put awver them," said Mr. Hannaford, sentimentally.

"Cry out for joy, I reckon," murmured Matthew, but not loud enough for his friend's wife to overhear him. "Theer 's wan thing you should know," he continued, changing the subject. "Parson Budd be a tremendous Church-of-Englander, so I heard squire say. He've got his knife into all chapelers an' free-thinkers an' such like."

"T is a free country," answered Mrs. Hannaford, and her curls almost clattered. as she shook her head. "He'd better mind his awn business, which be faith, hope, an' charity, an' not poke his nose into other people's prayers!"

"As for religion," declared Joseph, "the

little as I've got time for in that line be done along with my missis an' the Plymouth Brethren. But theer ban't no smallness in me. Room in the Lard's mansions for all of us; an' if the roads be narrer, theer 's plenty of 'em, an' plenty of gates to the Golden Jerusalem."

Mrs. Hannaford frowned.

"You 'm too free with your views, Joseph Hannaford," she said. "You'd best call to mind what pastor said to chapel last Sunday, 'bout the camel an' the needle's eye. Many be called an' few chosen, so theer 's an end of it. The Brethren's way be the right way an' the strait way; an' ban't your business to be making gates into heaven for them as do wrong, an' think wrong, an' have n't a spark of charity, an' be busy about the dowl's work in every other cottage in this village. I know what church folks be-nobody better."

Mr. Smallridge, himself of the established religion, retreated before this outburst.

"Pest of a female that," he said to himself. "How the man can keep heart after all these years be a mystery. Yet she sits light upon him, seemingly."

Then Joseph, with some groans and grumbles, went to decorate himself, that the new incumbent might smile upon him and reappoint him to the care of the vicarage garden. He shaved very carefully, washed, showed Mrs. Hannaford his finger-nails, a matter he usually shirked,donned his best attire, and finally started beside his wife to appear before Mr. Budd.

""T is a grievous choice," he said; "an' if the man doan't take me on, I'll have to go to the Hall onder Smallridge-a very oneasy thing to think upon."

""T is a matter of form, but better the Hall than any paltering with what's right; an' better be onder Smallridge than against your conscience."

"My conscience is very well, an' always have been since I was a bwoy."

"You 'm a deal tu easy, however," she answered sternly-"a deal tu easy, an' you 'll very likely find that out when 't is tu late. Your conscience be like proud flesh, I reckon: don't hurt 'e 'cause 't is past feeling. I wish it pricked you so often as your rheumatics do. 'T would be a sign of grace."

You 'm like poor Parson Truman's li'l' maiden wi' her flowers, you be," he re

torted. "Her was always dragging up the things to see how they prospered, an' you 'm always dragging up your conscience by the roots, same way, to see how 't is faring. I let mine bide."

"You can't," snapped back Mrs. Hannaford. "Conscience ban't built to bide-no more 'n a growing pear upon a tree. It goes from gude to better, or else from bad to wuss. You ban't so righteous-minded as I could wish 'e, Joseph; but I 've done a deal for you since we 've been man an' wife; an' if you 'm spared ten year more, I lay I'll have your conscience to work like a man saving his own hay."

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'Why for don't you do it, then?"

"Here's the vicarage," he answered. "Us better not go in warm-might be against us. I'll dust my boots, an' you 'd best to cool your face, for 't is glistening like the moon in the sky."

Presently they stood before a busy newcomer. He proved a young, plump, and pleasant man -a man fond of fishing and fox-hunting, a man of rotund voice and rotund figure. Joseph's heart grew hopeful. Here was no dragon of horticulture, but one, like himself, who would live and let live, and doubtless leave the garden in the hands of its professional attendant.

"Your servant, sir," he said. "I hope your honor be very well an' likes the church an' the hunt-also the garden."

"Mr. Joseph Hannaford, I suppose, and this is Mrs. Hannaford-good parishioners both, of course. Sit down, Mrs. Hannaford, please."

"T is in a nutshell, sir, an' we won't keep a busy gentleman from his business," said the old woman, very politely. "Joseph here have been gardener at the vicarage, man an' bwoy, for forty year-ever since theer was a garden at all. He helped to cut out the peat an' make the place, as was just a new-take from Dartymoor, though now 't is so good stuff as ever growed a cabbage.”

Ess fay; all rotted manure an' beautivul

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"As a kitchen-garden should be," assented Joseph. Gude times they was," he continued, "an' I only hopes the Reverend Truman have got such a fine garden an' such a' honest man in it as he had here."

"But no li'l' maid to go round with him, poor soul!"

"A bright child Mary his darter was. Impatient also-like youth ever is. Her 'd bring me plants to coddle, an' expect me to waste my precious time looking after her rubbish. Then a thing would be struck for death, along of want of water or what not, an' her 'd come to me wi' her li'l' face all clouded. 'Can't 'e make it well again, Joseph?' her 'd say; an' I 'd say, 'No, missy; 't is all up wi' thicky geranium,' or whatever 't was. "T is gwaine home.' An' her 'd stamp her li'l' foot so savage an' ferocious, an' say: 'But it must n't go home! I don't want it to go home! 'T is your business not to let it go home!' Poor little maiden!" "An' now she 've gone home herself." "Ess. Did n't mean to be rude to an auld man. But of course I could n't be bothered with such trash. As to watering, I always leave it to nature. Who be us that we should knaw better what things want than her do?"

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Nature caan't water green stuff onder glass, can her?"

"No; then why put it onder glass? All this here talk 'bout glass houses is vanity an' flying in the face of Providence. If 't was meant that grapes an' tree-ferns an' 'zaleas an' hothouse stuff was to flourish in England, they 'd be here doing of it on every mountain-side. Us takes too much 'pon ourselves. Same with prayers. What be prayer most times but trying to get the A'mighty round to our way of thinking? We'm too busy,—most of us,-an' that's the truth."

"Jimmery!" exclaimed Matthew. "I never did in all my born days hear tell of the like o' you! You won't work an' you won't pray-'t is terrible. All the same, if you don't get the vicarage again, an' come as onder-gardener to the squire, as he 've offered you, I tell you frankly, friends though we be, that you 'll have to work."

"I know it very well, Matt," said Mr. Hannaford. "Your way an' mine be different, root an' branch; an' I pray God as I may not have to work onder you, for

I'd hate it properly, an' that's the truth. An' I do work, an' I do pray likewise; an' I'd back my chance of going up aloft with my last shirt, if there was any to take the bet. You 'm too self-righteous along of your high wages—”

"Joseph! 't is time you put on your black," cried a voice from the cottage door.

Here grew a feeble honeysuckle that had been nailed up four years before, and still struggled gamely with a north aspect and neglect.

On the other side of the doorway was a thrush in a cage. It appeared too spiritless even to mount its wooden perch, but sat on the floor of its prison, listlessly pecked at nothing, and sympathized with the honeysuckle.

Mrs. Hannaford had a thin, flat figure, a hard mouth, keen eyes, and a face like a fowl. Tremendous force of character marked her pale visage. The curls that hung three on each side of her narrow forehead looked like steel shavings.

"Dress," she said, "an' be quick abou it. Ah, Mr. Smallridge-helping Joseph t waste his time."

"Not me, ma'am ; that's about the or job he does n't want helping with. I' just been telling your man that if Mr. Bu to the vicarage doan't need him, an' takes squire's offer an' comes to me, th must be more work an' less talk."

"The new parson will want him," Mrs. Hannaford, decidedly. "Who s stick a spade in that earth after forty if not Joseph?"

"Very plants would cry out if an else was put awver them," said Mr naford, sentimentally.

"Cry out for joy, I reckon," m Matthew, but not loud enough friend's wife to overhear him. wan thing you should know," he ‹‹ changing the subject. "Parson a tremendous Church-of-Engla heard squire say. He've got hi all chapelers an' free-thinkerlike."

"T is a free com Hannaford, and as she shook h. his awn bu charity, a people's "As

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