he made for his own delight he also kept for his own
delight. Even were there buyers, he would not sell them. Only a few, and
these peculiarly intimate friends, might even see them, for he disliked
to hear the undiscerning criticisms of those who did not understand. Not
that he minded laughter at his craftsmanship--he admitted it with
scorn--but that remarks about the personality of the tree itself could
easily wound or anger him. He resented slighting observations concerning
them, as though insults offered to personal friends who could not answer
for themselves. He was instantly up in arms.

"It really is extraordinary," said a Woman who Understood, "that you can
make that cypress seem an individual, when in reality all cypresses are
so _exactly_ alike."

And though the bit of calculated flattery had come so near to saying the
right, true, thing, Sanderson flushed as though she had slighted a
friend beneath his very nose. Abruptly he passed in front of her and
turned the picture to the wall.

"Almost as queer," he answered rudely, copying her silly emphasis, "as
that _you_ should have imagined individuality in your husband, Madame,
when in reality all men are so _exactly_ alike!"

Since the only thing that differentiated her husband from the mob was
the money for which she had married him, Sanderson's relations with that
particular family terminated on the spot, chance of prospective orders
with it. His sensitiveness, perhaps, was morbid. At any rate the way to
reach his heart lay through his trees. He might be said to love trees.
He certainly drew a splendid inspiration from them, and the source of a
man's inspiration, be it music, religion, or a woman, is never a safe
thing to criticize.

"I do think, perhaps, it was just a little extravagant, dear," said Mrs.
Bittacy, referring to the cedar check, "when we want a lawnmower so
badly too. But, as it gives you such pleasure--"

"It reminds me of a certain day, Sophia," replied the old gentleman,
looking first proudly at herself, then fondly at the picture, "now long
gone by. It reminds me of another tree--that Kentish lawn in the spring,
birds singing in the lilacs, and some one in a muslin frock waiting
patiently beneath a certain cedar--not the one in the picture, I know,
but--"

"I was not waiting," she said indignantly, "I was picking fir-cones for
the schoolroom fire--"

"Fir-cones, my dear, do not grow on cedars, and schoolroom fires were
not made in Ju