“I’m going right on, ma’am,” said the treasure. “Would you believe me, this Tring e-volves a system (save the mark) by which he gives away this flour—gives it away, mind you, gratis, free, for nothing, with a kiss thrown in if required, to any nigger cute enough to rub his little tummy and say he’s feeling empty. You may reckon I just couldn’t quit Union Town without a call to see if the man was an imbecile or what. I found a young cub with a curly smile playing around in the orfice. Say, what do you suppose he answered me when I told him ‘Good-morning, and what’s this sentimental money-chucking, anyway?’” “I am dying to know,” said the lady novelist. “Said it was the foyrst time he’d ever been led to think there might be something in sentiment after all. I was fair rattled.” The young cub with the curly smile, as you may, with your customary astuteness, have guessed, was the gardener. He had assumed the pose of philanthropist, which, when conducted at some one else’s expense, is one of the most delightful poses conceivable. The pleasure to be found in helping the dirty destitute seems to need an explanation beyond the plea of altruism. There is a real charm in domineering to good purpose. To say unto one man Go and he goeth, and to another Come and he cometh, is at all times pleasant, but when such a luxury as autocracy becomes a virtue, there are few who disregard its glamour. The gardener’s broken leg recovered as quickly as any leg could have done. He had an enthusiastic and healthy attitude towards suffering and illness, an attitude which he took instinctively, and which mental scientists and faith-healers try to produce artificially. He was always serenely convinced that he would be better next day. He lived in a state of secret disappointment in to-day’s progress, and unforced confidence in to-morrow’s. He might be described as a discontented optimist; though often convinced that the worst had happened, he was always sure that the best was going to happen. Conversely, of course, you can be a contented pessimist, happy in to-day, but entirely distrustful of to-morrow. To the gardener’s methods may perhaps be ascribed the fact that in a fortnight he was able with the help of a stick, and with the encouragement of Aitch and Zed, to walk about his room. His first excursion was to the window. The houses opposite had fallen in on their own foundations. One complete wall was standing starkly amid the mass. Portraits of the King and Queen and a text or two still clung to their positions against the stained and florid wall-paper. “Do you see that house that you just can’t see, the other side of that wall?” asked Aitch. “Yes, I see,” said the gardener. “I mean I just can’t see.” “That’s where dead Uncle Jonathan lives,” said Aitch. “He’s left Father the flour in his will.” “How good of him. I hope it was a pretty one.”