THE CHARM OF GARDENS 



they were in a dark lane — but a tailor, never. It 

 seemed all the world could tread the high road but a 

 tailor. Then I remembered my fairy tales — " Seven at 

 a Blow " — and laughed aloud. 



" I've given up my trade," he explained, as we began 

 to mount the hill. " No more sitting on a bench for 

 me in the spring or summer. I do a bit in the winter, 

 but I'm a free man on two pounds ten a week." 



And he was young — forty at the most. 



" Put by ? " said I. 



He smiled again. " Not quite, sir. I had a little 

 bit put by, but a brother of mine went to Australia, 

 and made a fortune — he died, poor Tom, and left his 

 money to me and my sister. Two pound ten a week 

 for each of us." 



" And it has brought you — this," I explained, point- 

 ing with my stick at the expanse of country. " It's 

 like a romance." 



" Isn't it ? " 



" Then you read romances ? " I asked quickly. 



" I read all I can lay hands on," he replied. " I'm 

 living just as my sister and I dreamed we'd live if ever 

 something wonderful happened." 



" And it has happened ? " 



" You're right, sir. My sister lives in the little 

 cottage I bought with my savings. She's got all she 

 wants — all anybody might want, you might say. A 

 cottage, six-roomed, all white, with a Pink Rose growing 

 over the porch, and a canary in a cage in the parlour. 

 Then there's a garden, and a bit of orchard, and bees 

 and a river at the bottom of the little meadow, and a 

 Catholic Church within a stone's throw — so it's all 

 right. She's a rare good gardener, is my sister." 



" I envy you both," I said. 



He looked me. up and down for a moment before 



28 



