l. The matter was all over now, for
the man in his wisdom had gone away.

When the Princess awoke, she sighed deeply.

"You have slept?" said the man.

"I have."

"You have dreamed?"

"I have."

"Tell me your dream."

"I cannot tell you my dream, but I have been to Paradise."

"Les yeux gris vont au Paradis," quoted the man.

"Now give me more of the poppy juice," said the Princess.

"No," said the man, "I have given you as much as you may take safely in
one day."

So the Princess pretended to be meek and obedient, and said it was very
well and she would think no more about it, and perhaps now sleep would
come to her at nights even if she did not drink the poppy juice. That
had broken down the barrier of the garden of sleep, and now she would be
able to enter the garden freely when she would.

"Perhaps," said the man.

But when for many nights she tried and could not sleep, she grew
rebellious, and going secretly to his apartments she procured the poppy
juice he had prepared. With this treasure in her hand, she went back to
the temple and stretched herself again on the bed of bracken. She drank
the whole of the poppy juice.

"For," she said aloud, "if the little death be so sweet, then--then----"

And here she fell asleep.

For ten successive days I had forgotten to buy the weed-killer;
therefore on the tenth day, which was a Wednesday, I went out to weed
the gravel paths with my own hands. It is not a pleasant operation. It
is, I believe, the thing in gardening that I loathe most.

The faint burble of water led me towards my fountain. It was playing
joyously, and some careless person had left beside it a garden-chair and
the current issue of _Punch_.

Any man with a sense of duty and a reasonable amount of will-power would
have turned off the fountain and got to work.

The sun was shining brightly. The day was warm. I had not seen that
number of _Punch_. And I did not turn off the fountain, I turned off the
work.

But the next day I remembered to buy weed-killer. The commonest saying
of the Spaniard is not duly appreciated in this country, and is
especially useful in the summer-time.

CHAPTER V

THE STRUGGLE: AND THE STORY OF "ALFRED SIMPSON"

The garden is peaceful, and this is the more extraordinary because it is
really the perpetual scene of the bloodiest warfare, and this warfare is
the more acute in a London garden because in London there are more
enemies. One has the figh