It must not be supposed, however, that he sank into a state of mystic contemplation that unfitted him for every-day life.  On the contrary, he took more interest in his physical surroundings than ever.  It was now October, and he threw himself with almost feverish energy into the garden-work belonging to that month.  There were potted carnations to be removed into warmth and shelter, hyacinths and tulips for the spring bloom to be planted in different beds, roses and honeysuckles to be carefully and scientifically pruned, and dead leaves to be plucked off everywhere.  His fragile health prevented him from helping in the more onerous tasks, but he followed Lubin about indefatigably, watching everything he did with eager vigilance, whether he was planting ranunculuses and anemones, or clipping hedges, or trimming evergreens; while he himself was fain to be content with pruning and budding, and directing how the plants should be most fitly set.  He said he wanted the show of flowers next year to be a triumph of gardencraft.  The garden was a sort of holy of holies to him, and he tended it, and planned for it, and worked in it more enthusiastically than he had ever done before.  This interest in common things was gratifying to Aunt Charlotte, who distrusted and discouraged his dwelling on what she called the uncanny side of life; but she was anxious, at the same time, that he should not overtax his strength, and gave secret orders to Lubin to see that the young master did not allow his ardour to outrun the dictates of discretion.

One afternoon, Austin, who was feeling unusually tired, was lying in an easy-chair in the drawing-room with a book.  He had been all the morning standing about in the garden, and after lunch Aunt Charlotte had put her foot down, and peremptorily forbidden him to go out any more that day.  Austin had tried to get up a small rebellion, protesting that there were a lot of jonquils to be planted, and that Lubin would be sure to stick them too close together if he were not there to look after him; but his aunt was firm, and Austin was compelled on this occasion to submit.  So there he lay, very calm and comfortable, while Aunt Charlotte knitted industriously, close by.

“You see, my dear, you’re not strong—­not nearly so strong as you ought to be,” she said, as she glanced at his drawn face.  “I intend to take extra care of you this winter, and if you’re not good about it I shall have to call in the doctor.  I feel I have a great responsibility, you know, Austin.  Oh, if only your poor mother were here, and could look after you herself!”

“How do you know she doesn’t?” asked Austin.

“My dear!” exclaimed Aunt Charlotte, rather shocked.

“Well, you can’t be sure,” retorted Austin, “and I believe myself she does.  I’m sure of one thing, anyhow—­and that is that if she came into the room at this moment I should recognise her at once.”

“You?  Why, you never saw her in your life!” said Aunt Charlotte.  “You shouldn’t indulge such fancies, Austin.  You could only think it might possibly be your mother, from the descriptions you’ve heard of her.  Of course you could never be certain.”