“Then surely the Government would pay us something for them, wouldn’t it?”

“I should think so, at least a decent Government would.  Anyhow, I think to give them up will be our best course.  I doubt if the whole lot is worth fifty pounds.  Where was it he said there was water?”

“Good gracious!” Gladys exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say you are going to bother about that now!”

“It was here, I think,” John Martin went on, thrusting his stick in the ground, “to the best of my knowledge—­and I had experts’ advice—­there is no water any where near here.  Had there been, I should not have gone to the expense of having pipes laid down to feed the pond.”

“Oh, Father, how can you be so silly,” Gladys cried, “of course there isn’t any water here.  It’s only a trick, a trick to frighten you—­and I’m beginning to think it has succeeded.”

“I shall try here anyway to-morrow,” John Martin said grimly.  “Let us go in now.”

When Gladys went into the garden on the following morning she beheld an extraordinary sight.  Her father, the gardener, and a man whom she did not recognize at first, as his back was turned towards her, but who, to her utter astonishment, proved to be Shiel Davenport, were hard at work, digging a pit.

Her father paused every now and then, and rested; but he did not allow the others a moment’s respite.  Every time they were about to slack, he urged them on.  It was all very well for the gardener who was accustomed to it, but it was obviously killing work for Shiel Davenport, and Gladys—­as soon as she had overcome a preliminary outburst of laughter—­gave vent to her sympathies.

“What a shame,” she exclaimed, “Father how can you?  Poor Mr. Davenport looks ready to drop.  Take a rest, Mr. Davenport!  Do—­you have my permission.”

Looking very hot and exhausted, Shiel Davenport threw down his spade and attempted to make himself presentable.

“His clothes will be ruined, Father,” Gladys said, indignantly.

“They’re not his clothes—­he’s wearing an old suit of mine,” John Martin explained, trying to appear unconcerned.

Shiel forced a laugh.  “I’m rather out of form, Miss Martin, I haven’t had much exercise lately.”

“You’re getting it now anyway,” John Martin chuckled.

“And it’s blistered your hands horribly!” Gladys cried, pointing to several raw places.  “I will fetch you a pair of father’s gloves—­he’s a brute!”

“Please don’t trouble,” Shiel exclaimed, “I’ll use my handkerchief instead.  Digging is even harder work than painting—­in one way.”

“It’s not fit work for you,” Gladys replied with another reproachful glance at her father.  “When did you arrive, I never heard you?”

“I ’phoned to him last night,” John Martin said, looking rather sheepish.  “I thought a day out here would do him good.  He thought so too, and came on by the seven o’clock train.  We’ve been digging ever since breakfast—­but a bit of exercise won’t hurt him, and I’ll give him plenty of vaseline presently.”