On the day that Smith was to come to luncheon, the blessed artist rose early in order that he might mow the lawn before breakfast. But when he went out, he found that it did not require to be mown. The grass grew to just the right height and then stopped. At luncheon Smith was inflated with pride, and talked freely about begonias. He mentioned other things which he had in his garden—things that that artist ought to come and see. The artist sat quite meekly, and was very polite until luncheon was over. Then he said: "I think we might have coffee in the garden, Smith, if you call that backyard of mine a garden."
"Ah," said Smith, "you should give a little more time and attention to it."
Then they passed out into the garden, and Smith was struck dumb. At last he said: "How do you manage to get those fine dark wallflowers in full bloom at the end of June?"
"Takes a bit of management," said the blessed artist complacently.
Smith began to walk round the garden. He admired exceedingly. The confession that he had got nothing like that escaped him frequently; and when he had seen it all, he pulled from one pocket an old envelope and from another a short stubb of a pencil.
"Look here," he said, "you might just give me the name of the chap who does your garden for you."
"The angels do my garden for me," said the blessed artist.
"Oh, all right," said Smith, "if you don't want to tell me, you needn't."
And he put back the old envelope and the pencil in their respective pockets, and he went away in a very bad temper. But this incident reminded the blessed artist to countermand the jobbing gardener—a man of intemperate habits and quite unfit to collaborate with angels.
The next day the artist went into his garden and enjoyed it extremely.