nds over it,
inhaling the scent, and then talking to himself, just as Mrs Mostyn
came up to the garden hedge, and stood watching him, holding up her hand
to old Hannah, to be silent, and not let him know that she was there.

CHAPTER TEN.

"Wait and see, my lad, wait and see," said James Ellis. "There, there:
we're in no hurry. You've only just got your appointment, and, as you
know well enough, women are made of tender stuff. Very soft, Dan, my
boy. Bless 'em, they're very nice though. We grow in the open air;
they grow under glass, as you may say. We're outdoor plants; they're
indoor, and soft, and want care. Polly took a fancy to poor John
Grange, and his misfortune made her worse. He became a sort of hero for
her school-girl imagination, and if you were to worry her, and I was to
come the stern father, and say, You must marry Dan Barnett, what would
be the consequences? She'd mope and think herself persecuted, and be
ready to do anything for his sake."

Daniel Barnett sighed.

"There, don't be a fool, man," said Ellis, clapping him on the shoulder.
"Have patience. My Pol--Mary is as dear and good a girl as ever
stepped, and as dutiful. What we saw was all sentiment and emotion.
She's very young, and every day she'll be growing wiser and more full of
commonplace sense. Poor John Grange has gone."

"But he has come back, and is staying with old Tummus."

"Yes, yes, I know, but only for a few days, till Mrs Mostyn has settled
something about him. She's a dear, good mistress, Dan, and I'd do
anything for her. She consulted me about it only the other day. She
wants to get him into some institution; and if she can't she'll pension
him off somewhere. I think he'll go to some relatives of his out
Lancashire way. But, anyhow, John Grange is as good as dead, so far as
your career is concerned. You've got the post he was certain to have
had, for the mistress was very fond of John."

"Yes; he'd got the length of her foot, and no mistake, sir."

"Well, well, you can do the same. She loves her flowers, and poor John
was for his age as fine a florist as ever lived. She saw that, and of
course it pleased her. All you have to do is to pet her orchids, and
make the glass-houses spick and span, keep the roses blooming, and--
there, I needn't preach to you, Daniel, my lad; you're as good a
gardener as poor John Grange, and your bread is buttered on both sides
for life."

"Not quite, sir," cried the yo