Mr. Marrapit frowned: “You do not inspire confidence. Sleep films your eye. I shudder for you. Women and children are in your care this night. The maids, Mrs. Armitage, Mrs. Major, my daughter, the young life of Frederick, are in your hands. What if rapine and murder, concealed in the garden, are loosed beneath my roof this night?” Mr. Fletcher passed a fist across his brow; spoke wearily: “It's all right, Mr. Marrapit. I can't say more; I can't do more. I tell you again it's all right.” “Substantiate. Adduce evidence.” Mr. Fletcher raised an appealing hand: “How can I prove it? My word's a good word, ain't it? I tell you the doors are locked. I can't bring 'em up to show you, can I? I'm a gardener, I am.” “By zeal give proof. Set your alarum-clock so that twice in the night you may be roused. Gird then yourself and patrol. But lightly slumber. Should my bell sound in your room spring instantly to my bedside. To your couch.” Battling speech, Mr. Fletcher moved to the door. At the threshold protest overcame him. He gave it vent: “I should like to ast if I was engaged to work by night as well as day? Can't I even have me rest? 'Ow many nights am I to patrol the house? It's 'ard--damn 'ard. I'm a gardener, I am; not a watchdog.” “Away, insolence.” Insolence, upon the stairs, morosely descending, drew aside to give room to Margaret and George. Margaret parted her lips at him in her appealing smile. “Oh, Mr. Fletcher,” in her pretty way she said, “you locked me out. Indeed you did.” She smiled again; tripped towards Mr. Marrapit's door. Mr. Fletcher stayed George, following. “Mr. George, did you shut up secure behind Miss Margaret?” George reassured him; questioned his earnestness. Mr. Fletcher pointed through a window that gave upon the garden. “I've the 'orrors on me to-night,” he said. “According to Master there's rapine lurking in them bushes. Mr. George, what'll I do if there's rapine beneath this roof to-night?” “Catch it firmly by the back of the neck and hold its head in a bucket of water,” George told him. Mr. Fletcher passed, pondering the suggestion. “Only something to do with rats after all,” he cogitated with wan smile of relief. IV. Margaret, at her father's bedside, luxuriously mouthed the fine phrases of the Book of Job which nightly she read him. Her chapter finished, she inquired: “Shall I read on?” “Does Job continue?” “No, father. The next begins, 'Then answered Bildad, the Shuite.'” George coughed upon the threshold. “Terminate,” said Mr. Marrapit. “Bildad is without.” “Oh, father, George is not!” “He torments me. He is Bildad. Terminate. To your bed.” She pressed a warm kiss upon Job's brow; took on her soft cheek the salute of his thin lips. “You have everything, dear father?” “Prone on my couch I lack much. I am content. You are a good girl, Margaret.” “Oh, father!” She tripped from the room in a warmth of satisfaction. The rough head of Bildad the Shuite came round the door; spoke “Good night.”