The Devil's Garden. W. B. Maxwell

day, he would be given an opportunity of stating his case in person, "agreeable to his request."

      Why had they suspended him? Surely it would have been more usual if they had allowed him to leave the office in charge of his chief clerk, or if they had given charge of it to a competent person from Rodhaven, and not sent a traveler from London? The traveling inspector is the bird of evil presage: he hovers over the houses of doomed men.

      William Dale ran his hand round the collarless neck of his shirt, and felt the perspiration that had suddenly moistened his skin.

      He was a big man of thirty-five; a type of the strong-limbed, quick-witted peasant, who is by nature active as a squirrel and industrious as a beaver; and who, if once fired with ambition, soon learns to direct all his energies to a chosen end, and infallibly wins his way from the cart-tracks and the muck-wagons to office stools and black coats. Not yet dressed for the day, in his loose serge jacket and unbraced trousers, he looked what was termed locally "a rum customer if you had to tackle un." His dark hair bristled stiffly, his short mustache wanted a lot of combing, a russet stubble covered chin and neck; but the broad forehead and blue eyes gave a suggestion of power and intelligence to an aspect that might otherwise have seemed simply forbidding.

      "Good marnin', sir."

      One of the helpers at the Roebuck stables had come slouching past.

      "Good mornin', Samuel."

      It was still music to the ears of the postmaster when people addressed him as "Sir." Especially if, like that fellow, they had known him as a boy. But he thought now that perhaps many who spoke to him thus deferentially in truth desired his downfall.

      Quite possible. One never knows. He himself wished them well, in his heart was fond of them all, and craved their regard; although he was too proud to be always seeking it, or even going half-way to meet it.

      And he thought, tolerantly, that you can not have everything in this world. Your successful man is rarely a popular man. He had had the success in full measure—if it pleased them, let the envious ones go on envying him his elevated station, his domestic comfort, and his pretty wife.

      As he thought of his wife all his reflections grew tender. She was probably still fast asleep; and when, presently, he went up-stairs to the private part of the house, he was careful not to disturb her.

      His official clothes lay waiting for him on a chair in the kitchen. They had been brushed and folded by Mary, the servant, who sprang to attention at the appearance of her master, brought him shaving-water, arranged the square of looking-glass conveniently, assisted with the white collar and black tie, and generally proved herself an efficient valet.

      She ventured to ask a question when Mr. Dale was about to leave the kitchen.

      "Any news, sir?"

      "News!" Mr. Dale echoed the word sternly. "What news should there be—anyway, what news that concerns you?

      "I beg pardon, sir." Buxom, red-cheeked Mary lowered her eyes, and by voice and attitude expressed the confusion proper to a subordinate who has taken a liberty in addressing a superior. "I'm sorry, sir. But I on'y ast."

      "All right," said Dale, less sternly. "You just attend to your own job, my girl."

      He went down into the office, and did not come up again until an hour and a half later, when breakfast was ready and waiting. He stood near the window for a few moments, meditatively looking about him. The sunlight made the metal cover of the hot dish shine like beautifully polished silver; it flashed on the rims of white teacups, and, playing some prismatic trick with the glass sugar basin, sent a stream of rainbow tints across the two rolls and the two boiled eggs. An appetizing meal—and as comfortable, yes, as luxurious a room as any one could ask for. Through the open door and across the landing, he had a peep into the other room. In that room there were books, a piano, a sofa, hand-painted pictures in gold frames—the things that you expect to see only in the homes of gentlemen.

      "Sorry I'm late, Will."

      "Don't mention it, Mavis."

      Mrs. Dale had come through the doorway, and his whole face brightened, softened, grew more comely. Yes, he thought, a home fit for a gentleman, and a wife fit for a king.

      "Any news?"

      "They've told me to go up and see them to-morrow;" and he moved to the table. "Come on. I'm sharp-set."

      "Did they write in a satisfactory way?"

      "Oh, yes. Sit down, my dear, and give me my tea."

      He had said that he felt hungry, but he ate without appetite. The roll was crisp and warm, the bacon had been cooked to a turn, the tea was neither too strong nor too weak; and yet nothing tasted quite right.

      "Will," said his wife, toward the end of the meal, "I can see you aren't really satisfied with their answer. Do tell me;" and she stretched her hand across the table with a gesture that expressed prettily enough both appeal and sympathy.

      She was a naturally graceful woman, tall and slim, with reddish brown hair, dark eyebrows, and a white skin; and she carried her thirty-two years so easily that, though the searching sunlight bore full upon her, she looked almost a young girl.

      Dale took her hand, squeezed it, and then, with an affectation of carelessness, laughed jovially. "They've appointed a deputy to take charge here during my absence."

      "Oh, Will!" Mrs. Dale's dark eyebrows rose, and her brown eyes grew round and big; in a moment all the faint glow of color had left her pale cheeks, and her intonation expressed alarm and regret.

      "It riled me a bit at first," said Dale firmly. "However, it's no consequence—really."

      "But, Will, that means—" She hesitated, and her lips trembled before she uttered the dreadful word—"That means—suspended!"

      "Yes—pro tem. Don't fret yourself, Mav. I tell you it's all right."

      "But, Will, this does change the look of things. This is serious—now." And once more she hesitated. "Will, let me write again to Mr. Barradine."

      "No," said Dale, with great determination.

      "May I get Auntie to write to him? She said she knows for sure he'd help us."

      "Well, he said so himself, didn't he?"

      "Yes. Anything in his power!"

      Dale reflected for a moment, and when he spoke again his tone was less firm.

      "In his power! Of course Mr. Barradine is a powerful gentleman. That stands to reason; but all the same—Let's have a look at his letter."

      "I haven't got his letter, Will."

      "Haven't got his letter? What did you do with it?

      "I tore it up."

      "Tore it up!" Dale stared at his wife in surprise, and spoke rather irritably. "What did you do that for?"

      "You seemed angry at my taking on myself to write to him without permission—so I didn't wish the letter lying about to remind you of what I'd done."

      "You acted foolish in destroying document'ry evidence," said Dale, sternly and warmly. But then immediately he stifled his irritation. "Don't you see, lassie, I'd 'a' liked to know the precise way he worded it. I'm practised to all the turns of the best sort o' correspondence, and I'd 'a' known in a twinkling whether he meant anything or nothing."

      "He said he'd be glad to do what was in his power. Really he said no more."

      "Very good. We'll leave it at that. He has done more than enough for us already, and I don't hold with bothering gentlemen in and out of season. Besides, this is a bit in which I don't want his help, nor nobody else's. This is between me and them."

      He pushed away his uneaten food, stood up, and squared his big shoulders.

      "Yes, but, Will dear—you, you won't be hasty when you get