have roused him, and congratulated myself on finding him in such
a mood, since I had made up my mind to ask him a favour. Then I
noticed that his face, instead of looking as calm as an egg-
shell, was distorted and whimpering--and without stopping to
greet me he pointed passionately to the melon.

"'Look at it, look at it--did you ever see such a beauty? Such
firmness--roundness--such delicious smoothness to the touch?' It
was as if he had said 'she' instead of 'it,' and when he put out
his senile hand and touched the melon I positively had to look
the other way.

"Then he told me what had happened. The Italian under-gardener,
who had been specially recommended for the melon-houses--though
it was against my cousin's principles to employ a Papist--had
been assigned to the care of the monster: for it had revealed
itself, early in its existence, as destined to become a monster,
to surpass its plumpest, pulpiest sisters, carry off prizes at
agricultural shows, and be photographed and celebrated in every
gardening paper in the land. The Italian had done well--seemed
to have a sense of responsibility. And that very morning he had
been ordered to pick the melon, which was to be shown next day at
the county fair, and to bring it in for Mr. Lenman to gaze on its
blonde virginity. But in picking it, what had the damned
scoundrelly Jesuit done but drop it--drop it crash on the sharp
spout of a watering-pot, so that it received a deep gash in its
firm pale rotundity, and was henceforth but a bruised, ruined,
fallen melon?

"The old man's rage was fearful in its impotence--he shook,