I hope his leg is not broke, though!-This way, sir this way!" The gardener led the doctor to the place, and there they found a man, whose leg had actually been caught in the spring-trap which had been set for the defence of the cherry-tree.

There is a ladder against the wall, set for the gardener to replace it. "Is it difficult to get up a ladder, Bobby?" ask I, standing still. "Difficult! Bless your heart, no! Why?" "One can see nothing here," I answer. "I should like to climb up and sit on the top of the wall, where one can look about one." My wish is easy of gratification.

The household belongings of the gardener had been brought upstairs as soon as the flood started. An old farmer, his wife who was beside herself with fear and several children, who were slinking in the corners, had taken refuge in the upper story with the ladies, as soon as the water began seeping into their humble home.

He was an invalid, keeping his bed half the time, and the other half hobbling round the house with a stick or being pushed about the grounds by the gardener in a bath-chair. He was well liked by the few neighbours who called upon him, and he has the reputation down there of being a very learned man. His household used to consist of an elderly housekeeper, Mrs. Marker, and of a maid, Susan Tarlton.

And if it is highly desirable that these things should be out of the common they are out of the common. A great deal of what happens in real life, and almost everything in literature, depends on this principle. You, of course, comprehend this, because you compose stories yourself." "Oh, yes," said the gardener; "I comprehend it perfectly."

"Without common sense we should be like an inexperienced gardener, who, for want of knowledge, would allow the tares to grow and would neglect the plants whose function is to nourish man. "In order to conform to the habit of judging with common sense, one ought first to lay down the following principle: "No fact can exist, unless there is a sufficient motive to determine its nature.

"Don't scrap," put in the gardener mildly. "Remember it's Christmas Eve." "Oy-yoy!" groaned Watson. "We've all got to listen to Mr. Bingle read Dickens again. It will be the sixth time I've 'eard The Christmas Carol in this 'ere room." He departed in quest of the tall step- ladder, banging Hughes on the shins with the small one as he swung past.

I must bring her back. I stormed up and down the room, incoherently declaring my intentions and upbraiding Hephzy for not having sent the groom or the gardener to find me, for allowing all the precious time to elapse. Hephzy offered no excuse. She did not attempt justification. Instead she brought the railway time-table, gave orders that the horse be harnessed, helped me in every way.

A shadow passed over the face of the blind listener, a momentary pang shot through his breast, he clasped his hands convulsively, then turning to the stranger he said in a steady voice: "Never mind the bird, he says queer things at times. Sir, I grant you the permission you come to seek, my gardener, Preston, will await you at whatever time you appoint, and conduct you through. Good-evening, Sir."

And when the Tsar's daughter awoke, she rose from her bed, and looking out into the garden, she saw it in a better state than before; then, sending for the gardener, she asked him how it had all happened in so short a time. But the man answered that he could not himself understand it, and the Tsar's daughter began to think Know-nothing was in truth wonderfully wise and clever.