one day he had actually said—'Much obliged.' I am a firm believer in the story of Balaam's ass."

"When did he die?" I asked.

"Only a few months ago. He was quite young. A motor-car killed him in the village. He was afraid of motor-cars. I fancy that when the tinkers had him they used to set him on to rush at cars in the hope that one day he might be killed and they could get compensation. They're not fond of animals in Catholic countries. Anyhow he seemed to be paralyzed with fright in the middle of the street just where it turns out of the village on the road to Youghal. The car came round the corner, and had I not held her, Bellwattle would have been under the wheels of it. I just got my arm round her waist in time. She struggled like the very devil with me. But there was no saving him. I could see that. It was all over in a minute. The car stopped further on—the people got out. My heavens! You should have heard Bellwattle's language! Instead of becoming incoherent, she poured out the vials of her wrath, never waiting for a word, using them all wrong, no matter how they came, but letting those wretches know just what she thought of them. Imagine Mrs. Malaprop gone mad with rage. It was something like that."

Indeed I could easily picture it. I know what she must have suffered too.

"And I suppose he's buried under the sundial? I can understand you don't care to go there. I'd often wondered, with her affection for Dandy, why she hadn't a dog of her own. I'm glad I never asked her."

The next time I got an opportunity, unobserved, I went back to this little corner of the garden. On the base of the sundial, where I had not noticed it before, there had been engraved the name of this little gentleman of Nature—Tinker they had called him—and there the sun above him beats out its hours upon the little dial of brass—the shadow of the gnome turns round, travelling upon the eternal circle of its journey. A sundial is a noble gravestone. I think I have seldom come across more truly consecrated ground than that in which Tinker is buried.

And it was there, stretched out upon that little strip of grass, that I lay and slept the other afternoon. Bellwattle's voice it was that wakened me.

She was talking to Cruikshank on the other side of the fuchsia hedge. A garden seat is there under the nut trees, where once or twice in the warm days we have had our tea.

"There is something the 

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