By W. B. Maxwell Author of "Mrs. Thompson," "In London: HUTCHINSON & CO. PATERNOSTER ROW 1913 The Devil playeth in a man's mind like a wanton child in a garden, bringing his filth to choke each open path, uprooting the tender plants, and trampling the buds that should have blown for the Master. Copyright U. S. America, 1913 oflege Library PR THE DEVIL'S GARDEN I HE village postmaster stood staring at an official envelope that had just been shaken out of a mailbag upon the sorting-table. It was addressed to himself; and for a few moments his heart beat quicker, with sharp, clean percussions, as if it were trying to imitate the sounds made by the two clerks as they plied their stampers on the blocks. Perhaps this envelope contained his fate. Soon the stamping was finished; the sorting went on steadily and methodically; before long the letters and parcels were neatly arranged in compartments near the postmen's bags. The first delivery of the day was ready to go forth to the awakening world. "All through, Mr. Dale." The postmaster struck a bell, and glanced at the clock. Five fifty-six. Up to time, as usual. "Now then, my lads, off with you." The postmen had come into the sorting-room, and were packing their bags and slinging their parcels. Sharp's the word.” Picking up his unopened letter, the postmaster went through the public office, stood on the outer threshold, and looked up and down the street. To his left the ground sloped downward through a narrowing perspective of house-fronts and roof cornices I |