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,
spluttered and strangled with it. He had just had the Italian up and