horticultural treasures
within.

"What a slap in the face!" he muttered. "Under-gardener! Well, that's
all right. Give poor old Dunton's place to Dan Barnett! Here, I can't
go in now, I must walk this off."

John Grange pulled the open door to, so that it fastened with a snap,
and turned off to make for the woods, where he could think alone.

His way was for a couple of hundred yards toward the pretty villa known
as the bailiff's cottage, and he had not gone half that distance when a
sudden pang shot through him. For the place stood high, and he caught
sight of two figures in the garden, one that of a man, the other that of
some one in white muslin and a straw hat, coming toward the gate. The
next minute the man was in the road, and half a minute later he was
standing talking to Mrs Mostyn's agent, while the white muslin that had
been so plainly seen amongst the shrubs had disappeared into the
cottage.

John Grange's face grew dark with a look of despair, and he did not go
off into the woods.

Dan Barnett, up there at the cottage talking to Mary, while he had been
speaking to her father, and she had come down to the gate with her
visitor.

Something very like a groan escaped the young man's lips as he crossed
the road to lean his arms upon the gate, and looked over into the park,
feeling more miserable than ever before in his life.

"I'm a poor, weak fool," he thought. "He's good-looking, and knows the
way to a girl's heart. Better keep to my nailing and pruning. One from
the father, two from Dan Barnett. Regular knock-down blows. Better get
up again, go to work and forget it all--if I can."

"Nice evening, John Grange. Drop o' rain coming?"

"Eh? Yes, I think so, Tummus," said the young man, turning to the dry,
quaint old fellow who had spoken, and who now screwed up the bark on his
face--it more resembled that than skin--showed three or four ancient,
yellow teeth, and jerked his right thumb over his shoulder.

"I say--see that? Young Dan Barnett going courtin', and now having it
out with Miss Mary's dad. You mark my words, Mr John, sir, if poor old
Dunton dies, and Dan Barnett steps into his shoes, there'll be a wedding
yonder."

"Think so, Tummus?" said John Grange, with a forced smile.

"Aye, that's what I think, sir," said the old man, and then showing his
gums as well as his teeth, he continued, "and I thinks this 'ere too--
that if I'd been a young, good-looking chap like some one I