m his perch
was a garden laid out in neat plots between grassy walks edged with
double daisies, red, white and pink, or bordered with sweet herbs, or
with lavender and wallflower; and here and there were cordons of
fruit-trees, apple, plum and cherry, and in a sunny corner a clump of
flowering currant heavy with humming bees; and against the inner walls
flat pear-trees stretched their long straight lines, like music-staves
whereon a lovely melody was written in notes of snow. And in the midst
of all this stood a very young man with a face as brown as a berry. He
was spraying the cordons with quassia-water. But whenever he filled his
syringe he wept so many tears above the bucket that it was always full
to the brim.

When he had watched this happen several times, Martin hailed the young
man.

"Young master!" said Martin, "the eater of your plums will need sugar
thereto, and that's flat."

The young man turned his eyes upward.

"There is not sugar enough in all the world," he answered, "to sweeten
the fruits that are watered by my sorrows."

"Then here is a waste of good quassia," said Martin, "and I think your
name is Robin Rue."

"It is," said Robin, "and you are Martin Pippin, to whom I owe more
than to any man living. But the primrose you brought me is dead this
five-and-twenty days."

"And what of your Gillian?"

"Alas! How can I tell what of her? She is where she was and I am here
where I am. What will become of me?"

"There are riddles without answers," observed Martin.

"I can answer this one. I shall fall into a decline and die. And yet I
ask no more than to send her a ring to wear on her finger, and have her
ring to wear on mine."

"Would this satisfy you?" asked Martin.

"I could then cling to life," said Robin Rue, "long enough at least to
finish my spraying."

"We may praise God as much for small mercies," said Martin pleasantly,
"as for great ones; and trees must not be blighted that were appointed
to fruit."

So saying, he unstraddled his legs and dropped into the road, tickled
an armadillo with his toe, twirled the silver ring on his finger, and
went away singing.

"Maidens," said Joscelyn, "here is that man come again."

Maids' memories are longer than men's. At all events, the milkmaids
knew instantly to whom she referred, although nearly a month had passed
since his coming.

"Has he his lute with him?" asked little Joan.

"He has. And he is giving cake to the ducks; they take