to my attic confessional once more, with
conscience for priest, and the twins for acolytes, though they presently
turned catechists with an entirely new series of questions.

When I have not opened my desk or my garden book for some time, and the
planting season, be it of spring or of autumn, as now, overtakes me
unawares, I am always newly convinced that gardening is the truly
religious life, for it implies a continual preparation for the future, a
treading in the straight and narrow path that painful experience alone
can mark, an absorption beyond compare, and the continual exercise of
hope and love, but above all, of entire childlike faith.

When the time had come in the creative evolution for the stamping of the
perfected animal with the Divine image that forever separates him from
all previous types, it was no wonder that God set man, in whom the
perpetual struggle between the body and soul was to take place, in a
garden for his education.

* * * * *

Recently the boys have been absorbed in their little printing press,
which they have established in my attic corner, the present working
motive having come from the card announcing Sylvia's marriage to the
world in general, according to Mr. Latham's desire. Richard secured one
of these and busied himself an entire morning in setting it in type, for
the first time in his experience getting the capitals and small letters
in their proper places. The result was so praiseworthy that Evan hunted
up a large box of ornamental cards for them in town, and for two days
they have been "filling orders" for every one in the household.

I print the names they wish to copy very distinctly in big letters.
Richard does the type-setting, which is altogether too slow work for Ian,
who, as pressman, does the inking and printing, and in the process has
actually learned his tardy letters. As to the distributing and cleaning
of the type, I find a little assistance is gratefully accepted, even by
patient Richard, whose dear little pointed fingers by this time have
become tired, and fumble.

To-day, having exhausted the simple family names, they have tried
combinations and experiments with the words Mr., Mrs., and Miss, much
to their own amusement, "_Miss_ Timothy Saunders" being considered a
huge joke.

Suddenly Ian looked up with one of his most compelling, whimsical smiles,
and said, "Barbara, grandpop's Mrs. was grandma, and she's in heaven, but
wher