and no other way would he go, as his mistress had
long since discovered--there was no man who earned his daily
bread more honestly. He took a pride in his work, and the Rectory
garden was always trim and well kept, and the beds bright with
flowers from early spring till late autumn.

He was absorbed in what he was about, and Tom came up close to
him without attracting the least sign of recognition; so he
stopped, and opened the conversation.

"Good day, Simon; it's a pleasure to see a garden looking so gay
as yours."

Simon looked up from his work, and, when he saw who it was,
touched his battered old hat, and answered,--

"Mornin' sir! Ees, you finds me allus in blume"

"Indeed I do, Simon; but how do you manage it? I should like to
tell my father's gardener."

"'Tis no use to tell un if a haven't found out for hisself. 'Tis
nothing but lookin' a bit forrard and farm-yard stuff as does
it."

"Well, there's plenty of farm-yard stuff at home, and yet,
somehow, we never look half so bright as you do."

"May be as your gardener just takes and hits it auver the top o'
the ground, and lets it lie. That's no kind o' good, that
beant--'tis the roots as wants the stuff; and you med jist as
well take and put a round o' beef agin my back bwone as hit the
stuff auver the ground, and never see as it gets to the roots o'
the plants."

"No, I don't think it can be that," said Tom laughing; "our
gardener seems always to be digging his manure in, but somehow he
can't make it come out in flowers as you do."

"Ther' be mwore waays o' killin' a cat besides choking on un wi'
crame," said Simon, chuckling in his turn.

"That's true Simon," said Tom; "the fact is, a gardener must know
his business as well as you to be always in bloom, eh?"

"That's about it, sir," said Simon, on whom the flattery was
beginning to tell.

Tom saw this, and thought he might now feel his way a little
further with the old man.

"I'm over on a sad errand," he said; "I've been to poor Widow
Winburn's funeral--she was an old friend of yours, I think?"

"Ees; I minds her long afore she wur married," said Simon,
turning to his pots again.

"She wasn't an old woman, after all," said Tom.

"Sixty-two year old cum Michaelmas," said Simon.

"Well, she ought to have been a strong woman for another ten
years at least; why, you must be older than she by some years,
Simon, and you can do a good day's work yet with any man."

Simon went on with his