reserve of black sateen, the kitchen steps and a box of tin-tacks, and

decorated the house with festoons and bows of black in the best

possible taste. She tied up the knocker with black crape, and put a

large bow over the corner of the steel engraving of Garibaldi, and

swathed the bust of Mr. Gladstone, that had belonged to the deceased,

with inky swathings. She turned the two vases that had views of Tivoli

and the Bay of Naples round, so that these rather brilliant landscapes

were hidden and only the plain blue enamel showed, and she anticipated

the long-contemplated purchase of a tablecloth for the front room, and

substituted a violet purple cover for the now very worn and faded

raptures and roses in plushette that had hitherto done duty there.

Everything that loving consideration could do to impart a dignified

solemnity to her little home was done.

She had released Mr. Polly from the irksome duty of issuing

invitations, and as the moments of assembly drew near she sent him and

Mr. Johnson out into the narrow long strip of garden at the back of

the house, to be free to put a finishing touch or so to her

preparations. She sent them out together because she had a queer

little persuasion at the back of her mind that Mr. Polly wanted to

bolt from his sacred duties, and there was no way out of the garden

except through the house.

Mr. Johnson was a steady, successful gardener, and particularly good

with celery and peas. He walked slowly along the narrow path down the

centre pointing out to Mr. Polly a number of interesting points in the

The History of Mr Polly