When Juliet was tired of playing, she put her dolls to bed, and settled herself in Mr. Jeminy's lap. There, while the lamplight danced across the walls, drowsy with sleep, she ended her day. "Tell me a story. Tell me about the big, white bull, who swam over the sea."

"Hm . . . well . . . once upon a time there was a great white bull . . ."

Then Mr. Jeminy rehearsed again the story of long, long ago, while the bright eyes closed, and the tired head drooped lower and lower; while the autumn moon rose up above the hills, and the haywagon rumbled along the road, to the sound of laughter and cries.

But Thomas Frye and Anna Barly were no longer seated in the hay, watching the harvest in. Unobserved by the others, they had stolen away before the wagon reached Milford. Now they were lying in a field, looking up at the stars, quieter than the crickets, which were singing all about them.



VII

MRS. GRUMBLE GOES TO THE FAIR

September's round moon waned; Indian summer was over. One morning in October Miss Beal, the dressmaker, had taken her sewing to Mr. Jeminy's, in order to spend the day with Mrs. Grumble. There, as she sat rocking up and down in the kitchen, the fall wind brought to her nose the odor of grapes ripening in the sun. The corn stood gathered in the fields, and in the yellow barley stubble the grasshopper, old and brown, leaped full of love upon his neighbor. Mrs. Grumble, beside a pile of Mr. Jeminy's winter clothes, sorted, mended, and darned, while the sun fell through the window, bright and hot across her shoulders. She kept one eye on the oven where her biscuits were baking, counted stitches, and listened to Miss Beal, who tilted solemnly forward in her chair when she had anything to say, and moved solemnly back again when it was over.

"Mrs. Stove," declared Miss Beal, leaning forward and looking up at Mrs. Grumble, "won't have a new dress this year. Well, she's right, material is dreadful to get. As I said to her: Mrs. Stove, your old dress will do; just let me fix it up a little. No, she says, she'll wear it as it is."

"Look at me," said Mrs. Grumble. "Here's an old rag. But I get along."

"Indeed you do," said Miss Beal. "Still," she added, speaking for herself, "one has to live."

"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Grumble airily.

"Goodness," exclaimed the dressmaker. "Gracious, Mrs. Grumble."

"I declare," avowed Mrs. Grumble, "what with things costing what they do, and every one so mean, I'd die as glad as not, out of spite."

"I wouldn't want to die," said Miss Beal slowly. "It's too awful. I want to stay alive, looking around."

"You're just as curious," said Mrs. Grumble. "Well, there, I'm not. Men are a bad lot. You can't trust a one of them. Not for long."

"Yes," sighed Miss Beal, "there's a good deal I want to see. I'd like to see Niagara Falls, Mrs. Grumble."

"Lor'," said Mrs. Grumble, "a lot of water."

"All coming down," said the dressmaker, "crashing and falling."

"I'd rather see a circus," declared Mrs. Grumble.

"Would you now?" asked Miss Beal, and her fingers ran in and out, in and out, faster than ever, "would you, now? Well, then . . . there's a fair at Milford this blessed afternoon."

"Would you go along?" asked Mrs. Grumble.

"Glory," said Miss Beal.

"I was going anyhow," said Mrs. Grumble.

Then Miss Beal began to giggle. "Well, I declare," she remarked, "I feel that young."

"Go away," said Mrs. Grumble; "to hear you talk . . ." She was in the best of humor.

"All the young folks will be there," said Miss Beal. "I heard as how Alec Stove was going with Susie Ploughman. And there's Thomas Frye . . . and Anna Barly . . ."

"Yes," said Mrs. Grumble.

Miss Beal held up her thread against the light. "There's a queer thing," she admitted. "I can't make head nor tail of it. Do you think there's an understanding between them, Mrs. Grumble?"

"If there is," said Mrs. Grumble, "then Thomas has more sense than I gave him credit for. Because how any one could have an understanding with that wild thing, is more than I can see."

"How she carries on," agreed Miss Beal, "first with Noel, when he was alive, and now with him."

"Ah," remarked Mrs. Grumble, "those are the new ideas. She has her head full of them. Only the other day, down to the store, I heard her say to Mr. Frye: 'It's the old who are always getting the young into trouble.'"

"Just think of that," said Miss Beal.

"To my way of thinking," continued Mrs. Grumble, "the shoe is on the other foot. What with the young folks growing up so wild, we must all be as busy as thieves to keep what belongs to us."

"And what belongs to us, Mrs. Grumble?" asked the dressmaker, lifting from her lap a dress designed for Mrs. Sneath, the butcher's wife.

"No more than what we can get," replied Mrs. Grumble, with a shake of her head. "And that's little enough."

"Then," said Miss Beal, "what do you think Anna Barly meant by saying 'twas the old had got her into trouble?"

"Why, bless your soul," said Mrs. Grumble.

Miss Beal, from the front of her chair, regarded her friend with round and serious eyes. "I don't rightly know, Mrs. Grumble," she said, "but I came on her yesterday, and I declare if she hadn't been crying. Last night I dreamed old Mrs. Tomkins died. And you know, Mrs. Grumble, dream of the dead . . ."

"Go away," said Mrs. Grumble.

"Mind," quoth Miss Beal, "I don't mean to say there's anything as shouldn't be. Still, nothing would surprise me."

"There's no use talking," cried Mrs. Grumble, "because I don't believe a word of it." But she felt it her duty to add: "For all I never saw Anna look so poorly."

"A touch of influenza," answered Miss Beal, "so Sara Barly says. Lord save us: a big healthy girl like Anna."

"It's the healthy ones who get it," said Mrs. Grumble with a sigh. "God moves in a mysterious way."

"His wonders to perform."

Mrs. Grumble arose and placed a kettle of water on the stove. "We'll have some tea," she said, "and I'll cook you some fritters. Jeminy is out. Then we'll go to the fair."

"Glory," said Miss Beal.

After lunch the two women put on their bonnets and went to take their seats in the Milford stage. As the wagon set out, creaking and crowded, everyone began to talk; and so, with cheeks reddened by the wind, rolled, still talking, into Milford.

The fair grounds were in a meadow, bounded on one side by a stream, and, beyond it, a wood already brown and blue with cold. Over the dead grass the bright colors of the fair shone in the sun; one could hear the music and the voices almost a mile away. On the other side of the field rose a gentle slope covered with goldenrod and white and purple blooms in which the bees and wasps were still busy. There, above the crowd of men and women, the happy insects were bringing to a close their own bazaar, begun amid the showers of early spring. Here was the bee, with his milch-cow, the ant with her souvenir, and the mild cricket, amused like Miss Beal by everything. Here, also, the wealthy spider, slung upon her twig, waited in patience for the homeless fly. And as, in comfort, she fed upon his juices, she exclaimed: "The right to fasten my web to this twig is a serious matter. For without me the fly would be wasted, and would not obtain a proper burial."

"I am very comfortable here," she added, "and I believe I have a right to this place, which, but for me, would be only a twig, and of no use to anybody."

Below, in the meadow, our two friends went arm in arm about the fair grounds; Miss Beal bought, as her first purchase, a spool of ribbon; and Mrs. Grumble had her fortune told. They rode on the carousel, all the while thinking: "This is really too silly." As Mrs. Grumble climbed down from her wooden horse, she said to herself: "I'm having as good a time as that little girl with the pigtails, who is going around for the fifth time."

If they turned west, their eyes were filled with the afternoon sun; when they looked east, they saw the maples, yellow and green, against the farther woods, the autumn sky, swept by its bright winds. All about them men and women rejoiced in the sunshine, told each other it was a fine day, and looked for some cause of dispute.

"The races are going to begin," said Mrs. Grumble, and taking her friend by the arm, made her way toward the track, where she could see the horses going gravely up and down. "There is a good one," she said; "see how he jumps about."

The drivers wheeled into line, and sped away with a rush; the band played and the spectators shouted.

"Oh, my," said Miss Beal, "look there." And she pointed to where Mr. Jeminy, close to the fence, was dancing up and down, waving his hat in the air. "Why, the old fool," said Mrs. Grumble.

"At his age," echoed Miss Beal.

But it did not amuse Mrs. Grumble to hear anyone else find fault with Mr. Jeminy. "He's enjoying himself," she said. "I don't know as how we've any call to make remarks."

"I only said 'at his age,'" replied Miss Beal hastily. But when she thought it over, it occurred to her that she was right, and Mrs. Grumble was wrong. Without courage on her own account, she was able to defend with energy the general opinion. "I said 'at his age,'" she repeated more firmly.

Mrs. Grumble folded her hands, and assumed a forbidding expression. "I expect," she said, "that Mr. Jeminy is old enough to do as he pleases."

"Maybe he is," answered the dressmaker, nettled by her friend's tone, "maybe he is. And maybe there's others old enough to know what's right in a man of his years, Mrs. Grumble."

"At any rate," remarked Mrs. Grumble, "it's not for you to say."

"It's not alone me is saying it," replied Miss Beal. "What's more," she added, "for all I don't like to repeat this to you, Mrs. Grumble, there's many think Mr. Jeminy is too old to teach school any longer. There's some would like to see a young woman at the schoolhouse."

"Oh," said Mrs. Grumble.

Miss Beal laid her hand on her friend's arm in a gesture at once triumphant and consoling. "Never you mind," she said; "trouble comes to all."

Mr. Jeminy went home from the fair with a light heart. He started early, because he liked to walk; and he carried in his hand a bit of lace for Mrs. Grumble. As he went down the road, beneath the turning leaves, and through the shadows cast by the descending sun, he began to sing, out of the fullness of his heart, the following song:

The Lord of all things, With liberalitee, Maketh the small birds, To sing on every tree.

The Lord of all things, He maketh also me; Giveth me no wings, Giveth me no words.

When Mr. Jeminy had sung as much as he liked, he went on to say: "In autumn the birds go south by easy stages; to-day their songs are departed from these woods, where there is none left but the catbird, to creak upon the bough. Soon snow will cover the earth, in which nothing is growing. But you, happy song birds, will build your nests far away, in green and windy trees, and your quarrels will fill distant valleys with music."

When Mr. Jeminy was nearly home he looked behind him and saw Thomas Frye and Anna Barly returning from the fair. He drew aside to let them pass, and with the sun shining in his eyes, he thought to himself, "Only the young are happy to-day."



VIII

THE TURN OF THE YEAR

A fortnight later, the dress-maker was called in haste to Barly Farm, to sew coarse and fine linen, and a dress for Anna to be married in. But it all had to be done within the week, towels, sheets, pillow-cases, table-cloths, and aprons. "More than a body could sew in a month," she declared. For Anna was going to have a baby. "Do what you can," said Mrs. Barly, "and we'll have to get along with that." And so we find Miss Beal at the farm by eight each morning, wishing the day were longer, to enable her tongue to catch up to her fingers; for she thought that she knew a thing or two, and could see what was directly in front of her nose. "I'm nobody's fool," she said, as she guided the cloth, snapped the thread, and rocked the treadle of the sewing machine; and she sang to herself from morning to evening. As the only songs she knew were from the hymnal, she sang, with a heart overflowing with praise:

Ah how shall fallen man Be just before his God? If He contend in righteousness, We sink beneath His rod. Amen.

or again:

Who place on Sion's God their trust Like Sion's rock shall stand, Like her immovable be fixed By His almighty hand. Amen.

She was happy; it seemed to her that God, to whom she lifted up her prayers, was wise and active, watching every sparrow. She was satisfied that young folks were no better off than in her own day, but might expect to find themselves, if they fell from grace, as wretched as in the past. When Sara Barly had made the dress-maker comfortable in the spare room, she went down to the kitchen in search of Anna. But Anna was in the barn with Tabitha, the cat, whose new-born kittens filled her with glee. Mrs. Barly stood in the middle of the kitchen, as idle as her pots, and looked out through the window at the brown and yellow fields. When she had tied her apron on, she felt dull and tired; it seemed to her as if she were no longer virtuous, yet had not received anything in return for what she had given. And because she felt as if she had been cheated, she, also, lifted up her voice to God. "Oh, God," she said, "all my life I never did anything like that."

By way of answer, she heard the low hum of the sewing machine, and the alleluias of the dressmaker, singing as though she were in church.

Farmer Barly was down in the south pasture, with the schoolmaster's friend, Mr. Tomkins; he wanted to put up a swinging gate between the south field and the road. But all at once he felt like saying: "I don't want a gate at all; I want a fence to shut people out." For when he thought of Anna, in the gay autumn weather, he felt old and moldy.

"A bad year," said Mr. Tomkins; "still, I guess you're not worrying. I understand you put a silo in your barn. But I suppose you have your own reasons for doing it. A good year for cows, what with the grass. I hear you're thinking of buying Crabbe's Jersey bull. A fine animal; I'd like him myself."

"You're welcome to him," said Mr. Barly.

"Ah," said Mr. Tomkins, "he's beyond me, Mr. Barly, beyond my means. I'm not a rich man. But I have my health."

"What are riches?" asked Mr. Barly. "They're a source of trouble, Mr. Tomkins. They teach a young girl to waste her time."

"Well, trouble," said Mr. Tomkins.

"But what's trouble? Between you and me, a bit of trouble is good for us all. Then we're liable to know better."

Mr. Barly shook his head wearily. "I don't know," he said; "folks are queer crotchets."

"Why, then," said Mr. Tomkins, "so they are; and so would I be, as crotchety as you like, if I owned anything beyond the little I have."

"Small good it would do you," said Mr. Barly. "Life is a heavy cross, having or not having, what with other people doing as they please." And taking leave of Mr. Tomkins, he went home, thinking that in a world where people robbed their neighbors, it were better not to possess anything.

As he passed the potato patch, he heard Abner singing, without much tune to his voice, a song he had learned in the army. "Ay," muttered Mr. Barly, "go on—sing. You've learned that much, anyway. I may as well sing, myself, for all the good I've ever had attending to my business. I'll sing a good one; then I'll be right along with everybody, and let come what may."

Anna, too, heard Abner singing, as she knelt in front of the basket where the mother cat lay with her four blind kittens. "You see, Tabby," she said, "people still sing. A lot of them learned to sing in the war, and now they're home, they may as well sing as cry. Oh, Tabby, I wanted to sing, too . . . now look at me.

"I went out so grand," she said. "I was going to find all sorts of things. But what did I find?"

At that moment, John Henry entered the barn, smoking his corncob pipe. When the smell of smoke reached Anna, she grew weak and ill, and stumbling back to the house, went upstairs to rest. But even to climb the stairs made her catch her breath. Now, before breakfast of a morning, she was deathly sick; afterwards she was tired, and ready to cry over anything. Poor Anna; she was dumb with shame. "I'm worse than Mrs. Wicket," she said to herself, over and over again. "I'm worse than Mrs. Wicket. My life is ruined. I'd be better dead."

And what of honest Thomas? He was pale with fright. It seemed to him as if the devil had reached up, and caught him by the leg. He was in for it. But like a fly in a web, he could not believe that it was not some other fly. "Oh, God," he prayed, "look down . . . say something to me."

When Mr. Jeminy was told that Thomas Frye and Anna Barly were to be married, he exclaimed: "What a shame.

"Yes," he continued with energy, "what a shame, Mrs. Grumble. They did as they were bid. Now they know that love is a trap to catch the young, and tie them up once and for all, close to the kitchen sink."

"No one bade them do what they'd no right to do," said Mrs. Grumble.

"They did," replied Mr. Jeminy sensibly, "only what they were meant to do. Youth was not made for the chimney corner, Mrs. Grumble. And love is not all one piece. We make it so, because we are timid and indolent. We like to think that one rule fits everything; that everything is simple and familiar. Even God, Mrs. Grumble, in your opinion, is an old man, like myself."

"He is not," said Mrs. Grumble.

"Yes," continued Mr. Jeminy, "you believe that God is an old man, insulted by everything. Now he has been insulted by Anna Barly, who did as she had a mind to. Well, well . . ."

"No matter," said Mrs. Grumble comfortably, "there's the baby; you can't get around that."

"Mrs. Grumble," said Mr. Jeminy earnestly, "I am going to Farmer Barly. I am going to say to him, 'Let me have Anna's baby, and we'll say no more about it.' Yes, that is what I am going to do."

"Well," gasped Mrs. Grumble, throwing herself back in her chair, "well, I never . . . so that's it . . . I can tell you this: the day that baby comes into this house, I go out of it. Why, who ever heard of such a thing? No, indeed."

"There," she thought to herself, "that's what comes of people like Mrs. Wicket."

"Mrs. Grumble," said Mr. Jeminy.

"I've no more to say," said Mrs. Grumble.

"Mrs. Grumble," pleaded Mr. Jeminy, "I am an old man. There is nothing left for me to do in the world any more. I am sure you would be pleased with Anna's baby. Let us do this much for youth; for the new world."

"I declare," cried Mrs. Grumble, "you'll drive me clean out of my wits. The new world . . . you mean Sodom and Gomorrah, more like. The new world . . . sakes alive."

"Mrs. Grumble," said Mr. Jeminy, "the old world is dead and gone. Let the young be free to build a new world. It will be happier than ours. It will be a world of love, and candor. Perhaps it will be also a world of poverty. That would not do any harm, Mrs. Grumble."

"A fine world," said Mrs. Grumble. "At least, I won't live to see much of it, I've that to be thankful for."

"Finer than what it is," retorted Mr. Jeminy, losing his temper, "finer than what it is. Not the same, sad pattern."

"The old pattern is good enough for me," replied Mrs. Grumble.

"You're a fossil," said Mr. Jeminy.

Then Mrs. Grumble raised her voice in prayer. "Lord," she prayed, "don't let me forget myself. Because if I do . . ."

"Yes, that's it," cried Mr. Jeminy, "stop up your ears . . ." And out he went in a rage. Mrs. Grumble, left alone, looked after him with flashing eyes and a heaving bosom. "Oh," she breathed, "if I could only lay my hands on him."

But when she did, at last, lay hands on him, it was not in the way she looked for, as she sat rocking up and down, waiting for him to come home again.



IX

THE SCHOOLMASTER LEAVES HILLSBORO, HIS WORK THERE SEEMINGLY AT AN END

Mr. Jeminy came slowly out of the post-office, and turned up the road leading to his house. In one hand, crumpled in his pocket, he held his dismissal from Hillsboro school: "On account of age," it said. Next morning, at nine o'clock, the new teacher was coming to take over the little schoolhouse, with its splintered desks, the dusty blackboard, and the colored maps.

As he walked, the sun sank in the west, and evening crept up the road after him. The air was damp; he could see his breath pass out in fog before his face. The wind, blowing above his head, showered down the last dried, yellow leaves upon his path; before him he saw the chilly sky with its faint, lonely star, and over him the half moon, like a slice; and he heard the autumn wind, steady and cold. "You fields," he said, "you trees, you meadows and little paths, I do not believe you wanted to dismiss me. You must have enjoyed the daisy chains my pupils used to weave for you in the spring. Now they will learn the use of figures and percents, and the names of cities I have forgot. I will never hear again the voices of children at the playhour come tumbling in through the school windows. For at my age one does not begin to teach again. But it is ridiculous to say that I am an old man."

It grew darker and darker, the trees creaked and popped in the cold, or groaned like bass viols; and all along the roadside Mr. Jeminy could see the feeble glimmer of fireflies, fallen among the leaves. He said to them, "Little creatures, my flame is also spent. But I do not intend, like you, to lie by the roadside in the wind, and keep myself warm with memories. Now I am going where I can be of use to others. For I am brisk and tough, and do not hope to gain by my efforts more than I deserve."

Thus, following his thoughts, Mr. Jeminy passed, without knowing it, the house where Mrs. Grumble, sitting by the stove, awaited his return. The moon, riding out the wind above his head, peered down at him between the branches, as he stepped from shadow into moonlight, and again into shadow. Under the trees the dry, fallen leaves stirred about his feet, and other leaves, which he could not see, fell near him in the dark. As he passed the little orchard belonging to Mrs. Wicket, he heard the ripe apples dropping in the night.

In the gray of dawn, he found himself approaching a farmhouse somewhere south of Milford, whose lighted lamp, pale yellow in the early twilight, drew him from the road, across the fields. As he turned through the tumbled gate, a woman came to the door, her dress billowing back from her in the breeze.

"Come in, old man," she said.



X

BUT HE IS SOUGHT AFTER ALL

In Mrs. Tomkin's garden the hydrangeas were already pink with frost, and the leaves of the maples, fallen upon the ground, covered the earth with patches of yellow and red. By the side of the road, piles of leaves, raked together by Mr. Tomkins, were set on fire; they burned with a crackle and a roar, and gave off an odor at once pungent and regretful, which mingled in the fresh autumn air with the fragrance of grapes and cider, as the last apples of the season, too old and ripe to keep, went to the press back of the barn.

Juliet liked to play in Mrs. Tomkins' garden, where the hens, each anxious to be not the first, but the second, ran after each other as though to say, "You go and see, and I'll come and look."

Now she sat on the steps of Mrs. Tomkins' porch with her doll Sara, while her mother, Mrs. Wicket, watched at the bedside of Mrs. Grumble, who was very ill. Juliet did not realize how ill she was; she thought Mrs. Grumble might have croup. But Mrs. Ploughman, who sat on the porch with Mrs. Tomkins, knew that Mrs. Grumble had pneumonia. "Got," she explained, "by setting up that night, when Mr. Jeminy never came home."

"No," said Mrs. Tomkins, "he never came home. If it had been me, in Mrs. Grumble's place, I'd have gone to bed, instead of parading around with a lantern all night, catching my death."

"Mr. Jeminy," said Mrs. Ploughman, "was a queer man, and no mistake. I remember the day he stepped in to pay me a call. Mrs. Crabbe was with me. 'Mrs. Ploughman,' he said, 'and you, Mrs. Crabbe, we're leaving a lot of trouble behind us.' Fancy that, Mrs. Tomkins—as though I'd up and go any minute. 'Mr. Jeminy,' I said, 'I'm not afraid to die. When my time comes, I'll go joyfully.'"

"No doubt you will," said Mrs. Tomkins comfortably.

"Well," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's a good thing, in my opinion, he was made to give up teaching school. It's a wonder the children know anything at all, Mrs. Tomkins. I declare, it used to mix me up something terrible, just to listen to him."

Mrs. Tomkins gazed at her sewing with thoughtful pleasure. "It was a hard blow to him," she said. "He did his best. Maybe he was a little queer. But he harmed no one. He used to tell the children stories.

"How is Mrs. Grumble," she asked, "to-day?"

"Weak," said Mrs. Ploughman; "very weak, out of her mind part of the time with the fever."

"Do you calculate she'll die, Mrs. Ploughman?"

"I don't know. But I don't calculate she'll live, Mrs. Tomkins. Still, we must hope for the best. This is the way it was; first the influenza, and then the pneumony. Double pneumony, the doctor says. There's a lot of it around again, like last year. It takes the young and the hardy. It won't get me. No.

"There's nothing to do for it," she added, "nothing, that is, beyond nursing."

"If it wasn't for Mrs. Wicket," said Mrs. Tomkins, "I expect she'd have been dead before this. Mrs. Wicket's a capable woman in things like that. Capabler than Miss Beal. There was no one else ever made me so comfortable. I have to say that about her; Mrs. Grumble's getting the best of care. And I'm looking after Juliet. Not that she's any trouble; she's as quiet as a mouse, playing all day long with her dolls."

But Mrs. Ploughman could not find it in her heart to forgive Mrs. Wicket for having been the cause of her grandson Noel's death. "Yes," she said, "I expect Mrs. Grumble's getting good care. But when a body's dying, 'tisn't so much care you want, as salvation. I wouldn't want any Jezebel hanging over my deathbed, Mrs. Tomkins, thank you."

Mrs. Tomkins, who attended each Sunday the little Baptist church at Adams' Forge, did not believe that she and Mrs. Ploughman would meet in heaven. However, she did not choose this moment to mention it. "It may be as you say, Mrs. Ploughman," she remarked, "or it may be that we've been too hard oh Mrs. Wicket. Mind you, I don't speak for her life with that bad egg of Eben Wicket's. But we ought to forgive others as we would have others forgive us."

"You needn't quote Gospels to me," declared Mrs. Ploughman; "I'm as easy to forgive as the next one, where there's a reason for it. I don't hold it against Mrs. Wicket that she drove my Noel to his death. No. I forgive her for it. And I don't blame Mr. Jeminy for going off, if he had a mind to, and leaving Mrs. Grumble to catch the pneumony."

"No," said Mrs. Tomkins.

"But there's this much queer," said Mrs. Ploughman: "The way she takes on in the fever. She does nothing but call him back, Mrs. Tomkins. 'Mr. Jeminy,' she hollers, 'where's the old rascal?' she says. Then she goes on about his being in some trouble, and she has to get him out of it. 'He's in the toils,' she says; 'he's with the scarlet woman.'"

"My life!" exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins.

"I declare," said Mrs. Ploughman, "I wouldn't be Mrs. Wicket, or Miss Beal, not for a thousand dollars."

Mrs. Tomkins sighed. "It's real sad," she said. "I'd like to find Mr. Jeminy; it would ease the old woman's last hours. But he's likely far away by this time. And there's no one could spare the time to go after him, even if a body knew where he was. Though I've an idea he went south, through Milford. Walking, I should say."

"The ole vagabone," exclaimed Mrs. Ploughman.

"Yes," Mrs. Tomkins declared with energy, "it's a wicked sin, Mrs. Ploughman, for him to be away now, and Mrs. Grumble taken down mortal. He's been a good friend to William for nigh on twenty years. I'd go after him myself, if it weren't for my rheumatism."

"Well," said Mrs. Ploughman, "I never heard of such a thing."

"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Ploughman," said Mrs. Tomkins. And folding her hands, she gazed at her friend with quiet satisfaction.

Little Juliet, playing on the steps with her doll Sara, missed none of this conversation, only a part of which, however, she understood. While she dressed and undressed her child, made of rags and sawdust, put her to sleep and woke her up again, she was listening with attention first to Mrs. Tomkins, and then to Mrs. Ploughman.

"Let's play you're Mrs. Grumble," she told Sara. And she covered the doll with her handkerchief. Sara did not mind the square piece of cambric, which Juliet often used to carry small handfuls of earth from one place to another. "I'm mother," said Juliet. Rising to her feet, she went out into the garden, and returned again. "My dear Mrs. Grumble," she exclaimed, "how do you feel to-day?"

"Very poorly, thank you," replied Sara, in that curious squeak with which all of Juliet's children answered their mother.

"Well, that's too bad," said Juliet. "Where does it hurt you, Mrs. G.?"

"In the stummick," squeaked Sara.

Juliet shook her head soberly. "Dear me," she said. "Well, cheer up, Mrs. Grumble; what would you like to have?"

"Ice cream," said Sara hopefully, "and fritters."

"All right," said Juliet. She went back into the garden, whence she presently returned with a few dead leaves and some mud. "Here," she said; "here's the ice cream. And here's the fritters. Don't get sick, now, will you?"

"No," said Sara.

Her mother gazed at her with sympathy. "What else would you like?" she inquired.

"I'd like Mr. Jeminy," squeaked Sara. "He's in the toils."

"I'll go and see if I can find him," said Juliet. And she began to look about for a twig, or a small branch, suitable for Jeminy. But all at once she grew thoughtful. It had occurred to her that to look for Mr. Jeminy in the flesh would be a delightful adventure. It would please every one. She sat down on the porch steps to think it over.

In the first place, it would be necessary to slip off unobserved. For although Mrs. Tomkins, by her own account, would be glad to have Mr. Jeminy back again, Juliet felt that she could not explain to Mrs. Tomkins exactly what she intended to do. As for the trip, an umbrella in case of rain, and the company of Sara would be sufficient. Then it was only a question of walking in the direction of Milford, before she came on Mr. Jeminy in the middle of the road; so Mrs. Tomkins had said.

With Sara under her arm, she tiptoed around to the rear of the house, skipped through the yard, climbed the low fence, and hurried home. There she put on her best bonnet, and took her mother's umbrella from the closet. Then she went back to her own room and took down her penny bank. Holding it upside down, she began to shake it as hard as she could. But only five pennies fell out. "That's enough," she decided. It seemed to her that with five pennies she could buy almost anything.

When she went to bid good-by to her family, she decided that Sara was not the doll she would take along with her, after all. For Anna had a bonnet, whereas Sara had none. Anna also wore a new dress, made for her by Mrs. Wicket out of an old petticoat. Sara was better company, but Anna would be more respected along the road.

"I guess I'll take you, Anna," said Juliet. "No use your pulling a face, Sara," she added; "it won't get you anything. You can't go. So you may as well know it. Maybe if you're good, I'll bring you something back."

And off she went down the road to Milford, Anna under one arm and the umbrella under the other.

For a while, as she walked, she told herself stories. She believed that she was the princess of one of Mr. Jeminy's fairy tales; then Anna became a duchess, or an old queen. The fact that nothing unusual happened to her, did not seem to her of any importance; she saw the russet fields, the bare woods, the solemn clouds, and far off shine and shadow; and walked with serious pomp for her own delight, as long as she was able.

But after a while she grew tired, and sat down by the roadside to rest. As she sat there, the sun sank lower, and the gathering chill of evening made itself felt in the air. Then for the first time doubt as to the wisdom of her course presented itself to her.

"We're going to catch it when we get home," she told Anna.

With a feeling of dismay, she remembered how far away from home she was. The hush of evening, the silence of the fields, filled her head with vague fears. She held her doll tightly to her breast for comfort. The little red squirrel, flirting along the low stone wall, seemed to peer at her as though to say; "This is where I live. But where do you live? You can't live here; I won't have it." Juliet began to shiver with cold.

"Oh, goodness," she whispered to Anna, "I'm going to catch it when I get home."

But to start for home again in the gloom, took more courage than she had left her. Grasping her umbrella, her five pennies, and her doll, she retreated to the middle of the road. "Mr. Jeminy," she cried, "Mr. Jeminy, where are you?"

The silence, more ghostly than before, was not to be endured. "Mr. Jeminy," she called at the top of her voice, "Mr. Jeminy, Mr. Jeminy, Mr. Jeminy.

"Oh, please come back."

She was saved the ignominy of tears. For at that moment she heard from down the road a sound of wheels, and the beat of hoofs. And presently a farm wagon, drawn by an old white horse, approached her in the twilight.

"Well, bite me," said the farmer, peering at her over the front of the wagon. "Are you lost, child?"

"No, sir," said Juliet. Now that she was found, she was in the best of spirits, all sprightliness and wheedle. "I'm not lost. I'm looking for somebody."

"Do tell," said the farmer. "A friend of yourn?"

"An old man," said Juliet. "An old, old man. He's a friend of mine. I have to tell him to come home as fast as he can, because it's a wicked sin."

"Does he live hereabouts?" asked the farmer.

"He used to," said Juliet, "but he ran away. Now Mrs. Grumble's sick, he ought to come home again, and ease her last hours."

The farmer began to chuckle. "What's the old gaffer's name?"

"Mr. Jeminy," said Juliet.

"Hop in," said the farmer. "I'll take you along. He's been stopping with Aaron Bade, over to the Forge. I declare, if that don't beat all. Curl up in the hay, child, it'll keep you warm. What were you doing, hollering for him?"

"Yes, sir," said Juliet.

The farm wagon started on again, through the rapidly falling dusk. Juliet, under a blanket in the hay, looked up at the tall figure of the farmer, set like a giant above her.

"Mister," she said.

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Did he come with a scarlet woman, did you hear?"

"Not so far as I know. No, he came all alone, early in the morning. Wasn't anybody with him."

Beneath her blanket, Juliet hugged Anna to her breast. "There, you see," she whispered. And in her fresh, young voice, she began to sing, while the wagon rattled down the road to Milford, a song she had heard her mother singing the year Noel Ploughman died.

"Love is the first thing, Love goes past. Sorrow is the next thing, Quiet is the last.

Love is a good thing, Quiet isn't bad, But sorrow is the best thing I've ever had."



XI

AND IS FOUND IN GOOD HANDS

From the Bade farmhouse, a mile below Hemlock Mountain, the road winds down to Adams' Forge, past Aaron Bade's stony fields. To the north lies Milford; but to the south lies that enchanting land, blue in the distance, misty in the sun, which the heart delights to call its home.

It is the land we see from any hilltop. As we gaze at its far off rises, its hazy, shadowy valleys, we feel within us a longing and a faint melancholy. There, we think, dwell the friends who would love us, if we were known to them, and there, too, must be found the beauty and the happiness that we have failed to discover where we are. It seems to us that there, in the distance, we should be happier, we should be more amiable and more dignified.

Aaron Bade, tied to his rocky farm on the slopes above Adams' Forge, remembered with a feeling of pleasure his one journey as far south as Attleboro. He had been obliged to return home before he had found the happiness which he had expected to find. However, once he was home, he realized that he had left it behind him, in Attleboro, or just a little further south . . .

Now, at forty, he was neither happy nor unhappy, but turned back in his mind to the fancies of his youth, and enjoyed, in imagination, the travels denied him in reality.

He had no love for the farm, which had belonged to his father; an old flute, on which his father used to play, was more of a treasure to him. Often in summer, as day faded, and the dews of night descended; when the clear lights in the valley were set twinkling one by one, leaving the uplands to the winds and stars, Aaron Bade, perched upon his pasture bars, piped to the faintly glowing sky his awkward thoughts and clumsy feelings.

In the morning he took leave of his wife, and with his hoe slung over his shoulder, made his way down to the cornfield. There, seated upon a stone, he saw himself in Attleboro again, pictured to himself the countryside beyond, and before noon, was half way round the world, leaving friends behind him in every land. Then, with a sigh, he would go in among the corn with his weeder, only to stand dreaming at every rustle of wind, seeing, in his mind, the smoke of distant cities, hearing, in fancy, the booming of foreign seas.

His wife was no longer a young woman. As a girl she had also had hopes for herself. It seemed to her, when she chose Aaron Bade, that in his company, life would be surprising and delightful. She expected to see something of the world—he spoke of it so much. But she was mistaken. For Aaron's travels were all of the mind. And she soon discovered that the more he talked, the more there remained for her to do. Thus her hopes died away; between the stove and the chickens, and what with cleaning, washing, sweeping and dusting, she rarely found time nowadays for more than a shake of her head, never very pretty, and at last no longer young, at the thought of what she had looked for, what she had meant to find. In short, from hopeful girl, Margaret Bade was, sensibly enough, turned practical woman; and when, on clear afternoons, with his work still to do, Aaron would take his flute down into the fields, she did his chores, as well as her own, with the wise remark that after all, they had to be done.

Nevertheless, when the dishes were washed—when the shadows of evening crept in past the lamp, no longer able to exclude them, she began to feel lonely and sad. And as the notes of Aaron's flute mingled with the night sounds, the chirp of crickets, the hum of insects, she felt, rather than thought, "Life is so much spilt milk. And all that comes of fancies, is Aaron's flute, playing down there in the pasture."

It was to this family that Mr. Jeminy came in the chilly dawn, on his way, apparently, to the ends of the earth, and, after breakfast, fell asleep in the hayloft, leaving them both gaping with pleasure and curiosity. For he came, Aaron had to admit, like a tramp; but spoke, Margaret thought, like the Gospels. "He's from roundabout," she said; "I hope he doesn't think to try and sell us anything. Men with something to sell always talk like the minister first."

But Aaron, with his mind on the far off world across the smoky autumn hills, was pained at such a suggestion. "You're wrong, mother," he said solemnly. "No, sirree. He's not from roundabout. And he's no common tramp either. He's come a distance, I believe."

"Then," said Margaret with regret, "I suppose he'll be going on again."

Aaron Bade stared attentively at one brown hand. "We could use a man on the farm," he said.

It gave his wife no pleasure to be obliged to agree with him.

"There's plenty still for a man to do, after you're done," she said. But she smiled almost at once; for like the women of that north country, crabbed and twisted as their own apple trees, she loved her husband for the trouble he gave her.

"It's a queer thing," said Aaron; "he has the look of a bookish man. Like old St. John Deakan down to the Forge, only St. John don't know anything, for all his looks."

"His talk was elegant," Mrs. Bade agreed. She stood still for a moment, looking down at her pots and pans. "He's seen a deal of life, I dare say," she added casually—so casually as to make one almost think that she herself had seen all she wanted to see.

"Well," said Aaron, "that's what schooling does for a man. It gives him a manner of talking, along with something to say."

Margaret, bent over her work again, plunged her red, wet arms up to the elbow in hot, soapy water. "You'll never lack talk, Aaron," she remarked; "or suffer for want of something to say. But it isn't washing my pots for me, nor bringing in the corn . . ."

"I'm going along now," said Aaron. "If the old man wakes before I'm back again, don't hurry him off, mother; I'd be glad to talk with him a bit before he goes."

"Who said anything about hurrying him off?" cried Mrs. Bade. "He can stay till doomsday, for all I care. He can sit and talk to me, while you're blowing on your flute. It'll be real companionable."

And she turned back to her pots and pans, a faint smile causing her mouth to curl down at one end, and up at the other.

Mr. Jeminy awoke in the afternoon. It was the nature of this kind and simple man to accept without question the hospitality of people he had never seen before; for he felt friendly toward every one. As he sat down to supper with the Bades, he bowed his head, and offered up a grace, with all his heart:

"Abide, O Lord, in this house; and be present at the breaking of bread, in love and in kindness. Amen."

During the meal, Aaron Bade asked Mr. Jeminy many questions, to discover what the old man hoped to do. "I suppose," he said, "you've come a good distance."

"Yes," said Mr. Jeminy gravely, "I have come a good distance."

Aaron Bade gave his wife a look which said plainly, "There, you see, mother."

"Where is your home, old man?" asked Mrs. Bade kindly.

"I have no home," said Mr. Jeminy.

Aaron Bade cleared his throat. "Are you bound anywhere in particular?" he asked.

"No," said Mr. Jeminy.

"Then," said Aaron Bade, "we'd admire to have you stay with us, if it's agreeable to you."

Mr. Jeminy looked about him at the homely kitchen, with its brown crockery set away neatly on the shelves. "If I stay with you," he said, "I should like to work in the fields, and help with the sowing and the harvesting."

"So you may," said Aaron Bade.

Mr. Jeminy looked at Margaret. "And you, madam?" he asked. "Would you care for the company of a garrulous old man at evening in your kitchen?"

Margaret blushed with pleasure. "Yes," she said.

"Very well," said Mr. Jeminy; "I will stay."

In this fashion Mr. Jeminy settled down at Bade's Farm, as farm hand to Aaron Bade. At the end of a week he felt that he had nothing to regret. He was active and spry, and believed himself to be useful. In fact, he could not remember when he had been so happy. High on his hill, he heard October's skyey gales go by above his head, and in the noonday drowse, watched, from the shade of a tree, the crows fly out across the valley, with creaking wings and harsh, discordant cries. In the early morning, he came tip-toeing down the stairs; from the open doorway he marked day rise above the east in bands of yellow light, and saw the foggy clouds of dawn slip quietly away, rising from the valleys, drifting across the hills; in the afternoon he labored in the fields, and at night, his tired body filled his mind with comfortable thoughts.

On his way to lunch, he stopped at the woodpile to get an armful of kindling for Mrs. Bade. The sober way she looked at him as he came in, hid from all but herself the almost voluptuous pleasure it gave her merely to be waited on, a pleasure she was more than half afraid to enjoy, for fear at jealous heaven might take it away, and leave her with all her work to do, and bad habits besides.

Therefore, as she ladled out potatoes, two to a plate, she seemed, to look at her, busier than ever; and far from being grateful, might have been used to favors every day of her life, whereas all the while she was saying ecstatically to herself, "Lord, make me humble."

For she saw in Mr. Jeminy all she had fancied as a girl, and lost hope in as a woman. Life . . . life was, then, to be had—leastways, a view of it, a good view of it—was to be heard of, by special act of Grace, on Bade's Farm, at Adams' Forge—of all places. So she dressed in her neatest, and was kinder than ever to Aaron, who was missing it. For she felt it was all just for her; she alone saw Mr. Jeminy for what he was, a grand, unusual peephole on the world. It was her own private peep, she thought. But she was wrong. Aaron was peeping as hard as she, and pitying her, as she was pitying him, for all he thought she was missing.

As for Mr. Jeminy, he let them think what they pleased. At first he was silent, out of shame. But later he enjoyed it as much as they did. "In Ceylon," he would say, "the tea fields . . ."

One day, a week after his arrival, Mr. Jeminy took the plow horse, Elijah, to the village to be shod. There the fragrance of wood fires mingled with a sweeter smell from barns and kitchens. As it was the hour when school let out, the yard in front of the schoolhouse was filled with children on their way home; laughing and calling each other, their voices rose in minor glees along the road, like the squabble of birds. And Mr. Jeminy, in front of the smithy, watched them go by, while his thoughts as follows:

"There," he said to himself, "its arms of texts, goes the new world. Within those careless heads and happy hearts we must look for courage, for wisdom and for sacrifice. Yet I believe they have the same thoughts as anybody else. That is to say, they suppose it is God's business to look after them. Yes, they are like their parents: they are carried away by what they are doing, which they do not believe could be done otherwise. One can see with what coldness, or even blows, they receive the advances of other little children, who wish to play with them. Well, as for those others, they go off at once, and play by themselves. One of them, whose hat has been taken by the rest, is digging in the earth with a bent twig, sharpened at one end. Possibly he is digging for a treasure, which will be of no value to anybody but himself. When he is older, he will be sorry he is not a child again."

At this point, Elijah being shod and ready, he ceased his reflections and went call for Aaron at the post-office. As the rode home together, the old schoolmaster, sunk in reverie, remained silent. But Aaron wanted to talk, now that he had some one to talk to.

"We'll get around to the wood to-morrow, and lay in another cord or two."

"As you like."

"They're saying down to the store that feed will be higher than ever this winter. I suppose we'd better lay in a store. I can't sell a few barrels of potatoes, though I did want to save them."

Mr. Jeminy roused himself with an effort. "I had the horse shod all around," he said.

Aaron nodded. "I guess it's just as well," he replied. "Did you ask about fixing the harrow?"

"It will take a week," said Mr. Jeminy. "I said to go ahead, figuring that we had the whole winter before us."

"We could do with a new harrow," said Aaron, "only there's no way to pay for it."

Mr. Jeminy shook the reins over Elijah's back. "I have a little money," he began, "laid away . . ."

"You're very kind," said Aaron, "but I don't figure to take advantage of it. Still, living's hard; so much trouble. Take me; here I am bound down to a farm's got as many rocks in it as anything else. I've been as far south as Attleboro, but I've never had a view of the world, like you've had. I'll die as I've lived, without anything to be grateful for, so far as I can see."

"You've had more to be grateful for than I ever had," said Mr. Jeminy simply, "and I'm not complaining."

"Go along," said Aaron; "you're speaking out of kindness. But it doesn't fool me any. I know you've led a wandering life, Mr. Jeminy. But I'd admire to see a little something of the world myself."

Above them the smoke from Aaron's chimney, thin and blue, rose bending like an Indian pipe in the still air. And Mr. Jeminy gazed at it in silence, before replying:

"You have had the good things of life, Aaron Bade."

"Have I?" said Aaron bitterly. "I'm sure I didn't know it. What are the good things of life, Mr. Jeminy?"

"Love," said Mr. Jeminy, "peace, quiet of the heart, the work of one's hands. Perhaps it is human to wish for more. But to be human is not always to be wise. Do you desire to see the world, Aaron Bade? Soon you would ask to be home again."

"Well, I don't know about that," said Aaron.

"Ah," said Mr. Jeminy, "love is best of all."

And once again he relapsed into silence. In the evening he drove the cows in. High up on Hemlock, Aaron, among his slow, thin tunes, thought to himself: "There go the cows. Mr. Jeminy understands me; he's a traveled man." And he played his flute harder than ever, because Mr. Jeminy, who had seen, as Aaron thought, all Aaron had wanted to see, breathed the airs of foreign lands, and sailed the seven seas, was setting Aaron's cows to right, in Aaron's tumbled barn.

In the kitchen, Margaret, going to light the lamp, smiled at her thoughts, which were timid and gay. She was happy because Mr. Jeminy, who had seen so many elegant women, helped her with her apple jellies, and brought her kindlings for the stove.

When the cows were milked, Mr. Jeminy came out of the barn, and stood looking up at the sky, yellow and green, with its promise of frost. "A cold night," he said to himself, "and a bright morning." He could hear the wind rising in the west. "Winter is not far off," he said, and he carried the two warm, foaming milkpails into the kitchen.

As he was eating his supper, a wagon came clattering down the road and stopped at the door. "There's Ellery Deakan back from Milford," said Margaret at the window. "I wonder what he wants at this time of night. Looks to be somebody with him. Go and see, Mr. Jeminy. I've the pudding to attend to."



XII

MRS. WICKET

Mrs. Grumble was dying. She lay without moving, one wasted hand holding tightly to the fingers of Mrs. Wicket, who sat beside the bed. There, where Mrs. Grumble had worked and scolded for twenty years, all was still; while the clock on the dresser, like a solemn footstep, seemed to deepen the silence with its single, hollow beat.

But if it was quiet in the schoolmaster's house, it was far from being quiet in the village, where Mrs. Tomkins was going hurriedly from house to house in search of Mrs. Wicket's runaway daughter. Mrs. Wicket, who was dozing, did not hear the anxious voices calling everywhere for Juliet. To Mrs. Grumble, the sound was like the dwindling murmur of a world with which she was nearly done. She felt that her end was approaching, and remarked:

"I hope I haven't given you too much trouble, Mrs. Wicket."

Mrs. Wicket tried to assure Mrs. Grumble that she had not been any trouble to her. But Mrs. Grumble said weakly:

"Maybe when I was out of my head . . ."

"Don't you fret yourself a mite about that," cried Mrs. Wicket; "for that's all over. Now you're going to get well."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "no, I'm not going to get well. I'm going to die." She thought over, in silence, what she had just said, and it appeared to satisfy her. At the thought of death she was calm and willing. "I remember," she remarked, "how I used to have a horror of dying. I was afraid to die, without having done anything to make me out different from anybody else. But I guess nobody's any different when it comes to dying, Mrs. Wicket. It feels easy and natural."

"Don't you so much as even think of it," said Mrs. Wicket.

Mrs. Grumble smiled. "There's no use trying to fool me," she declared. "I'm not afraid any more. I'd like to see Mr. Jeminy before I go. I'd like to know he was in good hands. I'd like to think you'd look after him a bit, Mrs. Wicket, when I'm gone."

"Yes," said Mrs. Wicket, "set your mind at rest."

"You've been very kind to me," said Mrs. Grumble, with difficulty. "You've had a hard time of it here in Hillsboro. You're a good woman, Mrs. Wicket. I'm glad you'll be here for him when he comes home. I took care of him for twenty years. As though he were my own."

"I'll care for him the same," said Mrs. Wicket, "as though he were my own."

Mrs. Grumble seemed to be content with this promise, for she remained for some time sunk in silence. At last she said, "He'll come in time for me to see him again. He won't leave me to die alone, not after I took care of him for twenty years.

"I remember the time he brought me a bit of lace from the fair over to Milford. He used to give me a lot of trouble. But he didn't forget to bring me home a piece of lace from the fair. I put it on my petticoat.

"He's on his way home now, Mrs. Wicket: yes, I can feel he's coming home."

Mrs. Wicket, who had been up with Mrs. Grumble the night before, let her head droop forward on her breast. "I don't doubt it," she said. And in the silence of the sickroom, she presently fell asleep. Mrs. Grumble lay with wide open eyes, staring at the door through which Mr. Jeminy was to come. She felt quiet and happy; it seemed to her that her pain was already over and done with. Framed in the doorway, in the yellow lamplight, she beheld the fancies of her youth, the memories of the past. She saw again the woman she had been, and watched, with eyes filled with compassion, her early sorrows, and the troubles of her later years. "It was all of no account," she said to herself, "but it doesn't matter now." And she set herself to wait in patience for Mr. Jeminy, who she never doubted would come to help her die.

Meanwhile the schoolmaster, in Aaron Bade's wagon, was rattling along the road, with Juliet tight asleep in his arms. As he drew near his home, he saw in the distance Barly Hill, and the lights of Barly Farm shining across the valley. "I am coming home again," he said to them; "I have no longer any pride. So now I know that I am an old man."

But later a feeling of peace took possession of his heart. "Yes," he said, "I am an old man. The world is not my affair any more. I belong to yesterday, with its triumphs and its failures; I must share in the glory, such as it is, of what has been done. The future is in the hands of this child, sound asleep by my side. It is in your hands, Anna Barly, and yours, Thomas Frye. But you must do better than I did, and those with whom I quarreled. To youth is given the burden and the pain. Only the old are happy to-day.

"Children, children, what will become of you?"

When Mr. Jeminy, with Juliet in his arms, strode in through Mrs. Grumble's door, Mrs. Wicket rose to her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom with delight and alarm. Mr. Jeminy gave Juliet to her mother. "Take the child home," he said. Then with timid, hesitant steps, he approached Mrs. Grumble's bed.

"You've been a long time coming," she said. "I'm tired."

"I'm here now," replied Mr. Jeminy; "I am not going away any more."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "you'd better stay home and attend to things. I won't be here much longer."

Mr. Jeminy wanted to say "nonsense," but he was unable to speak. Instead he took Mrs. Grumble's hand in both of his. "Are you going to leave me, dear friend?" he asked.

Mrs. Grumble smiled; then she gave a sigh. "Look what you called me," she said. And they were both silent, thinking of the past together. In the distance the crisp footsteps of Mrs. Wicket died away down the hill. And presently nothing was to be heard but the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel. Then Mr. Jeminy, for once, could find nothing to say. It seemed to him that instead of the clock's ticking, he heard the footsteps of death in the house, on the stair . . . tik, tok, tik, tok . . . And he sighed, with sadness and horror, "Ah, my friend," he thought, "are you as frightened as I am?"

Presently he saw that Mrs. Grumble was trying to lift herself up in bed. "I'm going now," she said. Her voice was low, but resonant. "Mrs. Wicket will look after you. She's a good woman, Mr. Jeminy. My mind's at peace. I never knew death was so simple and ordinary. It's almost like nothing."

She sank back; her voice gave out and she began to cough. "You will only tire yourself by talking," said Mr. Jeminy. "Rest now. Then in the morning . . ."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble faintly, "there'll be no morning for me, unless it's the morning of the Lord. Not where I'm going."

"You are going where I, too, must go," said Mr. Jeminy. "You are going a little before me. Soon I shall come hurrying after you."

"It's nearly over," said Mrs. Grumble. "I did what I could." Her mind began to wander; she spoke some words to herself.

"You, God," said Mr. Jeminy aloud, "this is your doing. Then come and be present; receive the forgiveness of this good woman, to whom you gave, in this life, poverty and sacrifice."

"Please," whispered Mrs. Grumble, "speak of God with more respect." They were her last words; it was the end. A spasm of coughing shook her; for a moment she seemed anxious to speak. But as Mr. Jeminy bent over her, her breath failed; her head fell back, and with a single, frightened glance, Mrs. Grumble passed away, without saying what she had intended.

Mr. Jeminy closed her eyes, and folded her hands across her breast. "She is gone already," he thought; "she is far away. She has pressed ahead, so swiftly, beyond sight or hearing."

He bent his head. "You made me comfortable in my life, Mrs. Grumble," he said, "yet at the end I could do nothing for you. But you will not think badly of me for that.

"Now you are hurrying through eternity. To you, these few slow hours before the dawn are no different from to-morrow or yesterday; they will never pass.

"Do you see, at last, the meaning of the spectacle you have just quitted? Do you understand what I, for all my wisdom, do not understand? You are free to ask God to explain it to you; you can say, 'I saw armies with banners, and scholars with their books.' Perhaps he will tell you the meaning of it. But for us, who remain, it has no meaning. Well, we say, this is life. We laugh, applaud, talk together, and think about ourselves. And one by one we slip away, no wiser than before.

"We are like the bees, who work from dawn till dark, gathering honey in the fields and in the woods. But we are not as wise as the bees, for each one grasps what he can, and cries, 'this is mine.' Then seeing that it is of no use to him, he adds, 'What will you give me for it?'"

And he began to think of the past. It seemed to him that he was in school again. It was spring; and the children came romping into the schoolroom, their arms full of books and flowers. Summer passed; he saw Anna Barly crying by the roadside, under the gray sky. He heard himself saying to Mrs. Grumble: "Yes, that's right, stop up your ears . . ." And he saw himself walking toward Milford in the moonlight, under the falling leaves. "Who, now," he thought, "will drive me out of doors because my room is in disorder, or burn, when I am away, the scraps of paper on which I have scribbled my memoranda?"

He bowed his head. "Rest quietly, Mrs. Grumble," he said. "Your troubles are over. For you there is neither doubt nor grief; life does not matter to you any more. Nor does it matter very much to me. For there is no one now to care what I do. I am no trouble to anybody."

The chilly breath of morning filled the valley with mist, fine, gray, imperceptible in the faint light of dawn. And a farmer's cart, as it rattled down the road, woke, in his chair, the old schoolmaster from the reverie into which he had fallen.

Faint and clear the early lights of the village went out, leaving the valley empty and cold. A freight train whistled at the junction, and crept, with tolling bell, over the switches, to the south.

The sun, rising, poured its yellow light into Mrs. Grumble's room, illuminating the bed, with its silent burden, and the still figure huddled in the chair. Slowly, and with difficulty, Mr. Jeminy got to his feet and crossed to the window. There his gaze encountered Mrs. Wicket, coming up the hill.

Blowing on his hands, Mr. Jeminy went to meet her in the early sunshine.

THE END