A GARDEN DIARY 215 
AUGUST I, 1900 
eee are times—surely we all know them 
—when the injustices of life, of the indi- 
vidual destiny, seem more than can be silently 
endured. ‘Why should this? and this? and 
this be?” we ask. To what end such superfluous 
happiness heaped upon one head, such equally 
uncalled-for refusals of it consigned to another? 
What does it mean? or who is the better for 
such unendurable partiality ?” 
The question is the oldest of all questions, 
yet it is the question of to-day, as it will be 
the question of to-morrow, and of many more 
to-morrows. Job asked it about himself, as 
some of us ask it about those whom we know 
to be infinitely better than ourselves. More- 
over it is not alone the apparent injustice of a 
life as a whole, but of the several parts of it, 
that we murmur at. There are acts of courage, 
of silent endurance, of unrecognised heroism, 
which only need to be performed in some more 
conspicuous fashion, or upon a larger field, to 
