Stella and I exchanged glances, and she cautioned me with her eyes. But politeness was never my strong point. "Sometimes," said I, "it happens that a chap who wants a garden lacks the means to sic a few men on the job. Under those conditions he may perhaps be pardoned for labouring himself." There was a slight silence broken by Stella, who said that we were going to get some goldfishes soon. "We can give them some out of our pool, can't we, father?" the other girl said, with an evident effort to be neighbourly. "We really have too many." "Certainly, certainly; have Peter bring some over to-night," her father replied. "Oh, thank you!" Stella cried. "And will you have Peter tell us their names?" "Their what?" exclaimed Mrs. Eckstrom. "Oh, haven't they names? The poor things!" Stella said. "I shall name them as soon as they come." "What a quaint idea," the girl said, with a smile. "Do you name all the creatures on the place?" "Certainly," said Stella. "Come, I'll show you Epictetus and Luella." This was a new one on me, but I kept silent, while she led us around the house, and lifted the plank which led up from the sundial lawn to the south door. Under it were two enormous toads and two small ones. "Those big ones are Epictetus and Luella," she announced, "and, dear me, two children have arrived to visit them since morning! Let me see." She dropped on her knees and examined the toads carefully, while they tried to burrow into the soil backward, to escape the sun. Our callers regarded her with odd expressions of mingled amusement and amazement--or was it pity? "A son and daughter-in-law," she announced, rising. "They are Gladys and Gaynor." A polite smile flickered on the faces of our three visitors, and died out in silence. Stella once more shot a glance at me. We turned toward the house. "If you will excuse me for a few moments, I will make myself fit to brew you some tea," said my wife, holding open the door. "That is very kind, but we'll not remain to-day, I think," Mrs. Eckstrom replied. "We will just glance at what you have done to this awful old house. It was certainly an eyesore before you bought it." "I _liked_ it all gray and weathered," Stella answered. "In fact, I didn't want it painted. But apparently you have to paint things to preserve them. Still, the Lord made wood before man made paint." "He also made man before man made clothes," said I. A polite smile from the girl followed this remark. Her father and mother seemed unaware of it. They gave our beautiful living-room a casual glance, and the man took in especially the books--in bulk. "You are one of these literary chaps, I hear," he said. "I suppose you need all these books in your business?" "Well, hardly all," I answered. "Some few I read for pleasure. Will you smoke?" I offered him a cigar. "Thanks, no," said he. "Doctor's orders. I can do nothing I want to. Diet, and all that. Damn nuisance, too. Why, once I used to----"