thought it was, and in that event he must abandon his place
and storm the kitchen to tell the cook all about it. Perhaps
the gardener was taking life easy on the kitchen porch. He,
too, came in for praise. R. H. D. had never seen our Japanese
iris so beautiful; as for his, they wouldn't grow at all. It
wasn't the iris, it was the man behind the iris. And then
back he would come to us, with a wonderful story of his
adventures in the pantry on his way to the kitchen, and
leaving behind him a cook to whom there had been issued a new
lease of life, and a gardener who blushed and smiled in the
darkness under the Actinidia vines.

It was in our little house at Aiken, in South Carolina, that
he was with us most and we learned to know him best, and that
he and I became dependent upon each other in many ways.

Events, into which I shall not go, had made his life very
difficult and complicated. And he who had given so much
friendship to so many people needed a little friendship in
return, and perhaps, too, he needed for a time to live in a
house whose master and mistress loved each other, and where
there were children. Before he came that first year our house
had no name. Now it is called "Let's Pretend."

Now the chimney in the living-room draws, but in those first
days of the built-over house it didn't. At least, it didn't
draw all the time, but we pretended that it did, and with
much pretense came faith. From the fireplace that smoked to
the serious things of life we extended our pretendings, until
real troubles went down before them--down and out.