ng was neatly arranged.

'Here are the tuberous-rooted Glasgownias,' he said, showing a rigid row
of stunted plants; 'those are Squintaceae; this is a new introduction,
Moldavia Semperflorida Andersonii; and this is Prattsia.'

'When do they come out?' said Darnell.

'Most of them in the end of August or beginning of September,' said
Wilson briefly. He was slightly annoyed with himself for having talked
so much about his plants, since he saw that Darnell cared nothing for
flowers; and, indeed, the visitor could hardly dissemble vague
recollections that came to him; thoughts of an old, wild garden, full of
odours, beneath grey walls, of the fragrance of the meadowsweet beside
the brook.

'I wanted to consult you about some furniture,' Darnell said at last.
'You know we've got a spare room, and I'm thinking of putting a few
things into it. I haven't exactly made up my mind, but I thought you
might advise me.'

'Come into my den,' said Wilson. 'No; this way, by the back'; and he
showed Darnell another ingenious arrangement at the side door whereby a
violent high-toned bell was set pealing in the house if one did but
touch the latch. Indeed, Wilson handled it so briskly that the bell rang
a wild alarm, and the servant, who was trying on her mistress's things
in the bedroom, jumped madly to the window and then danced a hysteric
dance. There was plaster found on the drawing-room table on Sunday
afternoon, and Wilson wrote a letter to the 'Fulham Chronicle,'
ascribing the phenomenon 'to some disturbance of a seismic nature.'

For the moment he knew nothing of the great results of his contrivance,
and solemnly led the way towards the back of the house. Here there was a
patch of turf, beginning to look a little brown, with a background of
shrubs. In the middle of the turf, a boy of nine or ten was standing all
alone, with something of an air.

'The eldest,' said Wilson. 'Havelock. Well, Lockie, what are ye doing
now? And where are your brother and sister?'

The boy was not at all shy. Indeed, he seemed eager to explain the
course of events.

'I'm playing at being Gawd,' he said, with an engaging frankness. 'And
I've sent Fergus and Janet to the bad place. That's in the shrubbery.
And they're never to come out any more. And they're burning for ever and
ever.'

'What d'you think of that?' said Wilson admiringly. 'Not bad for a
youngster of nine, is it? They think a lot of him at the Sunday-school.
But come into my den