nerosity of
his children, the dream of his whole life was realized at last.

"When I am rich," the little man used to say in his cheerless rooms in
the Marais, "I will have a house of my own, at the gates of Paris, almost
in the country, a little garden which I will plant and water myself. That
will be better for my health than all the excitement of the capital."

Well, he had his house now, but he did not enjoy himself in it. It was at
Montrouge, on the road that runs around the city. "A small chalet, with
garden," said the advertisement, printed on a placard which gave an
almost exact idea of the dimensions of the property. The papers were new
and of rustic design, the paint perfectly fresh; a water-butt planted
beside a vine-clad arbor played the part of a pond. In addition to all
these advantages, only a hedge separated this paradise from another
"chalet with garden" of precisely the same description, occupied by
Sigismond Planus the cashier, and his sister. To Madame Chebe that was a
most precious circumstance. When the good woman was bored, she would take
a stock of knitting and darning and go and sit in the old maid's arbor,
dazzling her with the tale of her past splendors. Unluckily, her husband
had not the same source of distraction.

However, everything went well at first. It was midsummer, and M. Chebe,
always in his shirt-sleeves, was busily employed in getting settled. Each
nail to be driven in the house was the subject of leisurely reflections,
of endless discussions. It was the same with the garden. He had
determined at first to make an English garden of it, lawns always green,
winding paths shaded by shrubbery. But the trouble of it was that it took
so long for the shrubbery to grow.

"I have a mind to make an orchard of it," said the impatient little man.

And thenceforth he dreamed of nothing but vegetables, long lines of
beans, and peach-trees against the wall. He dug for whole mornings,
knitting his brows in a preoccupied way and wiping his forehead
ostentatiously before his wife, so that she would say:

"For heaven's sake, do rest a bit--you're killing yourself."

The result was that the garden was a mixture: flowers and fruit, park and
kitchen garden; and whenever he went into Paris M. Chebe was careful to
decorate his buttonhole with a rose from his rose-bushes.

While the fine weather lasted, the good people did not weary of admiring
the sunsets behind the fortifications, the long days, th