reticent on the subject nearest his heart when bestowing on Sally the
twenty-seventh cabbage as he had been when administering the hundred
and sixtieth potato. At any rate, the fact remains that, as that
fateful vegetable changed hands across the fence, something resembling
a proposal of marriage did actually proceed from him. As a sustained
piece of emotional prose it fell short of the highest standard. Most of
it was lost at the back of his throat, and what did emerge was mainly
inaudible. However, as she distinctly caught the word 'love' twice, and
as Tom was shuffling his feet and streaming with perspiration, and
looking everywhere at once except at her, Sally grasped the situation.
Whereupon, without any visible emotion, she accepted him.

Tom had to ask her to repeat her remark. He could not believe his
luck. It is singular how diffident a normally self-confident man can
become, once he is in love. When Colonel Milvery, of the Hall, had
informed him of his promotion to the post of second gardener, Tom had
demanded no _encore_. He knew his worth. He was perfectly aware
that he was a good gardener, and official recognition of the fact left
him gratified, but unperturbed. But this affair of Sally was quite
another matter. It had revolutionized his standards of value--forced
him to consider himself as a man, entirely apart from his skill as a
gardener. And until this moment he had had grave doubt as to whether,
apart from his skill as a gardener, he amounted to much.

He was overwhelmed. He kissed Sally across the fence humbly. Sally, for
her part, seemed very unconcerned about it all. A more critical man
than Thomas Kitchener might have said that, to all appearances, the
thing rather bored Sally.

'Don't tell anybody just yet,' she stipulated.