ips with
him. Does he still live where he used to?"

"I believe so."

We were not long seeking him out, and in response to our knocking his
good wife opened the door.

"Oh, he's out in his garden," was her reply to our queries. "You can't
keep him away from it. But he's going crazy, I think. He wants to
attend to everything all by himself now. There isn't a soul left to
help him, and he'll kill himself, or be killed at it as sure as I'm
alive. You'll see, the shells won't miss him. He's escaped so far but
he may not always be so lucky. He's already had a steel splinter in
his thumb, and one of them tore a hole in his cap and in his waistcoat.
That's close enough, I should think. But there's no use of my talking;
he just won't listen to me. He's mad about gardening. That's what he
is!"

On the old woman's assurance that we would find him by pounding hard on
the gateway leading to the Avenue de la Gare, we hastened away, leaving
her to babble her imprecations to a lazy tabby cat who lay sunning
itself in a low window box.

The old fellow being a trifle deaf we were destined to beat a rather
lengthy tattoo on the high iron gate. But our efforts were crowned
with success, for presently we heard his steps approaching, his sabots
crunching on the gravel path.

His face lighted up when he saw us.

"Oh, I remember you, of course I do. You're the lady who used to have
the American sweet peas and the Dorothy Perkins. I know you! And the
dahlias I gave you? How did they turn out?"

I grew red and sought to change the conversation. Perhaps he saw and
understood.

"Come and see mine anyway!"

That sight alone would have made the trip worth while.

"I cut the grass this very morning so as they'd show off better!
They're so splendid this year that I've put some in the garden at the
Hotel de Ville."

Further on the _Gloire de Dijon, La France_ and _Marechal Niels_ spread
forth all their magnificent odorous glory onto the balmy air of this
Isle de France country, whose skies are of such exquisite delicate
blue, whose very atmosphere breathes refinement.

I felt my old passion rising;--that passion which in times gone by had
drawn us from our sleep at dawn, and scissors and pruning knife in
hand, how many happy hours had H. and I thus spent; he at his fruit
trees, I at my flower beds, cutting, trimming, scraping, clipping;
inwardly conscious of other duties neglected, but held as though
fascinated by t