the job you won't find in Pall
Mall. There's an encouragement to go ahead that you seldom strike in
this world. There's a gratitude the old place'll hand you that no
reporter could ever understand...."

It was true.

As the short days went tearing by, the spirit of the place entered into
Anthony's soul. He laboured thirstily, yet not so much laboured as
laid his labour as a thank-offering at his goddess's feet. He counted
himself happy, plumed himself on his selection for the office, thanked
God nightly. But that he needed the pay, he would not have touched it.
As it was, a third of it went into his tool-bag. The appalling
magnitude of the task never worried him--nor, for the matter of that,
his fellow-workers. Master and men went toiling from dawn to dusk
under a spell, busy, tireless as gnomes, faithful as knights to their
trust. Their zeal was quick with the devotion to a cause that went out
with coat-armour. Rough weather might chill one iron, but another was
plucked from the fire ere the first was cold. There never was seen
such energy. Place and purpose together held them in thrall. Had
encouragement been needed, the death of every day showed some material
gain. Foot by foot the kingdom was being restored.

Whether the goddess of the estate had charmed Patch also, it is not for
me to say. He was certainly a happy fellow. Life had apparently
developed into one long, glorious ramble, which nothing but nightfall
could curtail. To his delight, too, Anthony and the other men showed
an unexpected and eventful interest in stones and boughs and ditches
and drains, and sometimes they even dragged trees along the ground for
him to bark at. It is to be hoped that he also expressed his gratitude
of nights......

If he has not done so this night, it is too late now, for he is
stretched upon the warm bricks in a slumber which will allow of no
orisons this side of to-morrow.

Let us take his tip, gentlemen. The night is young, I know, but
Anthony has been abroad since cock-crow. Besides, I have led you a
pretty dance. You have, in fact, tramped for miles--'tis two and an
odd furlong to the old grey house alone--and the going is ill, as you
know, and the night, if young, is evil. A whole gale is coming, and
the woods are beside themselves. The thrash of a million branches, the
hoarse booming of the wind, lend to the tiny chamber an air of comfort
such as no carpets nor arras could induce. The rain, to