“I heard somebody yell out in the grounds—away down by the gate!” she informed her mistress in a loud stage whisper which had a curious note of pride in it, as if she were not too displeased at seeing her doleful predictions so swiftly coming to pass. Miss Cornelia took her by the shoulder—half-startled, half-dubious. “What did they yell?” “Just yelled a yell!” “Lizzie!” “I heard them!” But she had cried “Wolf!” too often. “You take a liver pill,” said her mistress disgustedly, “and go to bed.” Lizzie was about to protest both the verdict on her story and the judgment on herself when the door in the hall was opened by Billy to admit the new gardener. A handsome young fellow, in his late twenties, he came two steps into the room and then stood there respectfully with his cap in his hand, waiting for Miss Cornelia to speak to him. After a swift glance of observation that gave her food for thought she did so. “You are Brooks, the new gardener?” The young man inclined his head. “Yes, madam. The butler said you wanted to speak to me.” Miss Cornelia regarded him anew. _His hands look soft—for a gardener’s_, she thought. _And his manners seem much too good for one—still—_ “Come in,” she said briskly. The young man advanced another two steps. “You’re the man my niece engaged in the city this afternoon?” “Yes, madam.” He seemed a little uneasy under her searching scrutiny. She dropped her eyes. “I could not verify your references as the Brays are in Canada—” she proceeded. The young man took an eager step forward. “I am sure if Mrs. Bray were here—” he began, then flushed and stopped, twisting his cap. “_Were_ here?” said Miss Cornelia in a curious voice. “Are you a _professional_ gardener?” “Yes.” The young man’s manner had grown a trifle defiant but Miss Cornelia’s next question followed remorselessly. “Know anything about hardy perennials?” she said in a soothing voice, while Lizzie regarded the interview with wondering eyes. “Oh. yes,” but the young man seemed curiously lacking in confidence. “They—they’re the ones that keep their leaves during the winter, aren’t they?” “Come over here—closer—” said Miss Cornelia imperiously. Once more she scrutinized him and this time there was no doubt of his discomfort under her stare. “Have you had any experience with rubeola?” she queried finally. “Oh, yes—yes—yes, indeed,” the gardener stammered. “Yes.” “And—alopecia?” pursued Miss Cornelia. The young man seemed to fumble in his mind for the characteristics of such a flower or shrub. “The dry weather is very hard on alopecia,” he asserted finally, and was evidently relieved to see Miss Cornelia receive the statement with a pleasant smile. “What do you think is the best treatment for urticaria?” she propounded with a highly professional manner. It appeared to be a catch-question. The young man knotted his brows. Finally a gleam of light seemed to come to him. “Urticaria frequently needs—er—thinning,” he announced decisively.