For the children, therefore, the Gardener was a man of mystery and power, and when they saw his figure in the distance, their imagination leaped forward with their bodies, and WEEDEN stood wrapped in a glory he little guessed. He was bent double, digging (as usual in his spare time) for truffles beneath the beech trees. These mysterious delicacies with the awkward name he never found, but he liked looking for them. At first he was so intent upon his endless quest that he did not hear the approach of footsteps. "No hurry," said the Tramp, as they collected round the stooping figure and held their feathers up to warn his back. For the wandering eye had a way of seeing what went on behind him. An empty sack, waiting for the truffles, lay beside him. He looked like an untidy parcel, so he was _not_ in his Sunday clothes. At the sound of voices he straightened slowly and looked round. He seemed pleased with everything, judging by the expression of his eye, yet doubtful of immediate success. "Good mornin'," he said, touching his speckled cap to the authorities. "Found any?" enquired Uncle Felix, sympathetically. "It seems a likely spot, maybe," was the reply. "I'm looking." And he closed the mouth of the sack with his foot lest they should see its emptiness. But the use of the verb set the children off at once. "I say," Tim exploded eagerly, "we're looking too--for somebody who's hiding. Have you seen any one?" "Some one very wonderful?" said Judy. "Has he passed this way? It's Hide-and-Seek, you know." WEEDEN looked more mysterious at once. It was strange how a one-eyed face could express so big a meaning. He scratched his head and smiled. "All my flowers and vegitubles is a-growin' nicely," he said at length. "It is a lovely mornin' for a game." His eye closed and opened. The answer was more direct than usual. It meant volumes. WEEDEN was in the know. They felt him somehow related to their leader--a kind of organised and regulated tramp. "You _have_ seen him, then?" cried Judy. "With your gone eye!" exclaimed Tim. "Which way? And what signs have you got?" "Flowers, beetles, snail-shells, caterpillars--anything beautiful is a sign, you know," went on Judy, breathlessly. "Deep, tender, kind and beautiful," interposed the Tramp, laying the accent significantly on the first adjective, as if for Weeden's special benefit. WEEDEN looked up. "Sounds like my garden things," he said darkly, more to himself than to the others. He gazed down into the hole he had been digging. The moist earth glistened in the sunlight. He sniffed the sweet, rich odour of it, and scratched his head in the same spot as before--just beneath the peak of his speckled cap. His nose wrinkled up. Then he looked again into the faces, turning his single eye slowly upon each in turn. The Tramp's remark had reached his cautious brain.