THE DEVIL'S GARDEN by W. B. MAXWELL Author of _In Cotton Wool_, _Mrs. Thompson_, _Seymour Charlton_, etc. Indianapolis The Bobbs-Merrill Company Publishers 1914 THE DEVIL'S GARDEN The Devil playeth in a man's mind like a wanton child in a garden, bringing his filth to choke each open path, uprooting the tender plants, and trampling the buds that should have blown for the Master. I The village postmaster stood staring at an official envelope that had just been shaken out of a mailbag upon the sorting-table. It was addressed to himself; and for a few moments his heart beat quicker, with sharp, clean percussions, as if it were trying to imitate the sounds made by the two clerks as they plied their stampers on the blocks. Perhaps this envelope contained his fate. Soon the stamping was finished; the sorting went on steadily and methodically; before long the letters and parcels were neatly arranged in compartments near the postmen's bags. The first delivery of the day was ready to go forth to the awakening world. "All through, Mr. Dale." The postmaster struck a bell, and glanced at the clock. Five fifty-six. Up to time, as usual. "Now then, my lads, off with you." The postmen had come into the sorting-room, and were packing their bags and slinging their parcels. "Sharp's the word." Picking up his unopened letter, the postmaster went through the public office, stood on the outer threshold, and looked up and down the street. To his left the ground sloped downward through a narrowing perspective of house-fronts and roof cornices to faint white mist, in which one could see some cattle moving vaguely, and beyond which, if one knew that it was there, one might just discern a wide space of common land stretching away boldly until the dark barrier of woods stopped it short. To his right the ground lay level, with the road enlarging itself to a dusty bay in front of the Roebuck Inn, turning by the churchyard wall, forking between two gardened houses of gentlefolk, and losing itself suddenly in the same white mist that closed the other vista. Over the veiling whiteness, over the red roofs, and high above the church tower, the sky of a glorious July morning rose unstained to measureless arches of blue. As always in this early hour of the day, the postmaster thought of his own importance. The village seemed still half asleep--blinds down wherever he looked--lazy, money-greedy tradesmen not yet alive to their selfish enterprises--only the poor laborers of the soil already at work; and nevertheless here was he, William Dale, up and about, carrying on the continuous business of the state. But how long would he be permitted to feel like this? Could it be possible that the end of his importance was near at hand? _On Her Majesty's Service!_ He opened the envelope, unfolded the folio sheet of paper that it contained, began to read--and immediately all the blood in his body seemed to rush to his head.