AUTUMN

by

ROBERT NATHAN

New YorkRobert M. McBride & CompanyCopyright, 1921by Robert M. McBride & Company

TO D. M. N. , AND TO OUR

FRIEND HERBERT FEIS

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

 I Mrs. Grumble II School Lets Out III The Barlys IV Mr. Jeminy Builds A house Out of Boxes V Rain VI Harvest VII Mrs. Grumble Goes to the Fair VIII The Turn of the Year IX The Schoolmaster Leaves Hillsboro, His Work There Seemingly at an End X But He is Sought After All XI And is Found in Good Hands XII Mrs. Wicket

I

MRS. GRUMBLE

On Sunday the church bells of Hillsboro rang out across the ripeningfields with a grave and holy sound, and again at evening knockedfaintly, with quiet sorrow, at doors where children watched for thefirst star, to make their wishes. Night came, and to the croaking offrogs, the moon rose over Barly Hill. In the early morning the grass, still wet with dew, chilled the bare toes of urchins on their way toschool where, until four o'clock, the tranquil voice of Mr. Jeminydisputed with the hum of bees, and the far off clink of theblacksmith's forge in the village. 

At four o'clock Mr. Jeminy, with a sigh, gathered his books together. He sighed because he was old, and because the day's work was done. Hearose from his seat, and taking up his stick, passed out between thebenches and went slowly down the road. 

It was a warm spring day; the air was drowsy and filled with the scentof flowers. A thrush sang in the woods, where Mr. Jeminy heard beforehim the light voices of children. He thought: "How happy they are. "And he smiled at his own fancies which, like himself, were timid andkind. 

But gradually, as the afternoon shadows began to lengthen, he grew sad. It seemed to him as if the world, strange and contrary during the day, were again as it used to be when he was young. 

When he crossed the wooden bridge over Barly Water, the minnows, frightened, fled away in shoals. Mr. Jeminy turned down toward thevillage, where he had an errand to attend to. As his footsteps diedaway, the minnows swam back again, as though nothing had happened. One, larger than the rest, found a piece of bread which had fallen intothe water. "This is my bread, " he said, and gazed angrily at hisfriends, who were trying to bite him. "I deserve this bread, " he added. 

Old Mr. Frye kept the general store in Hillsboro, and ran the postoffice. It was easy to see that he was an honest man; he kept his shoptidy, and was sour to everybody. Through his square spectacles he sawhis neighbors in the form of fruits, vegetables, stick pins, and piecesof calico. Of Mr. Jeminy he used to say: "Sweet apples, but small, very small; small and sweet. "

"Yes, " said Farmer Barly, "but just tell me, who wants small apples?"

Mr. Frye nodded his head. "Ah, that's it, " he agreed. 

At that moment Mr. Jeminy himself entered the store. "I'd like to buya pencil, " he said. "The pencil I have in mind, " he explained, "issoft, and writes easily, but has no eraser. "

"There you are, " said the storekeeper; "that's five cents. "

"I used to pay four, " said Mr. Jeminy, looking for the extra penny. 

"Well, perhaps you did, " said Mr. Frye, "but prices are very high now. "And he moved away to register the sale. 

Farmer Barly, who was a member of the school board, cleared his throat, and blew on his nose. "Hem, " he remarked. "Good-day. "

"Good-day, " said Mr. Jeminy politely, and went out of the store withhis pencil. Left to themselves, Mr. Frye and Mr. Barly began todiscuss him. "Jeminy is growing old, " said Mr. Frye, with a shake ofhis head. 

Mr. Barly, although stupid, liked to be direct. "I was brought up onplus and minus, " he said, "and I've yet to meet the man who can get thebetter of me. Now what do you think of that, Mr. Frye?"

Mr. Frye looked up, down, and around; then he began to polish hisspectacles. But he only said, "There's some good in that. "

"There is indeed, " said Mr. Barly, closing one eye, and nodding hishead a number of times. "There is indeed. But those days are over, Mr. Frye. When I was a child I had the fear of God put into me. Itwas put into me with a birch rod. But nowadays, Mr. Frye, the childrenneglect their sums, and grow up wild as nettles. I don't know whatthey're learning nowadays. "

And he blew his nose again, as though to say, "What a pity. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Frye, wisely, "there's no good in _that_. "

Mr. Jeminy knew his own faults, and what was expected of him: he wasnot severe enough. As he walked home that evening, he said to himself:"I must be more severe; my pupils tease each other almost under mynose. To-day as I wrote sums on the black-board, I watched out of thecorner of my eye. . . . Still, a tweaked ear is soon mended. And it'strue that when they learn to add and subtract, they will do each othermore harm. "

The schoolmaster lived in a cottage on the hill overlooking thevillage. He lived alone, except for Mrs. Grumble, who kept house forhim, and managed his affairs. Although they were simple, and easy tomanage, they afforded her endless opportunities for complaint. She wasnever so happy as when nothing suited her. Then she carried her broominto Mr. Jeminy's study, and looked around her with a gloomy air. "No, really, it's impossible to go on this way, " she would say, and sweepMr. Jeminy, his books and his papers, out of doors. 

There, in the company of Boethius, he often considered the world, andwatched, from above, the gradual life of the village. He heard theoccasional tonk of cows on the hillside, the creak of a cart on theroad, the faint sound of voices, blown by the wind. From his thresholdhe saw the afternoon fade into evening, and night look down across thehills, among the stars. He saw the lights come out in the valley, oneby one through the mist, smelled the fresh, sweet air of evening; andpromptly each night at seven, far off and sad, rolling among the hills, he heard the ghostly hooting of the night freight, leaving MilfordJunction. 

"Here, " he said to himself, "within this circle of hills, is to befound faith, virtue, passion, and good sense. In this valley youth isnot without courage, or age without wisdom. Yet age, although wise, isfull of sorrow. "

While he was musing in this vein, the odor of frying bacon from thekitchen, warmed his nose. So he was not surprised to see Mrs. Grumbleappear in the doorway soon afterward. "Your supper is ready, " shesaid; "if you don't come in at once it will grow cold. "

For supper, Mr. Jeminy had a bowl of soup, a glass of milk, bacon, potatoes, and a loaf of bread. When Mrs. Grumble was seated, he benthis head, and said: "Let us give thanks to God for this manifestationof His bounty. "

During the meal Mrs. Grumble was silent. But Mr. Jeminy could see thatshe had something important to say. At last she remarked, "As I was onmy way to the village, I met Mrs. Barly. She said, 'You'll have to buyyour own milk after this, Mrs. Grumble. ' I just stood and looked ather. "

Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised, " he said. And, indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, theneighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables, fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and whileshe washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom ofher soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a goodman, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents werewasted. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy, " she told Miss Beal, the dress-maker, "because he talks so much. "

It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But hisconversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, orPlotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks aboutnothing but the dead, " she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen. "

"No, " said Miss Beal. "How aggravating. "

Now, Mr. Jeminy, unheeding the sighs of his housekeeper, continued:"But after all, I would not change places with Farmer Barly. Forriches are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out ofthe heart. A man is only to be envied who desires little. "

"It is always the same, " said Mrs. Grumble; "the rich have theirpleasures, and the poor people their sorrows. "

"That, " said Mr. Jeminy, "is the mistake of ignorance. For Epictetuswas a slave, and Saint Peter was a fisherman. They were poor; but theydid not consider themselves unfortunate. More to be pitied than eitherSaint Peter or Epictetus, was Croesus, King of Lydia, who was probablynot as rich as Mr. Gary. But he knew how to use his wealth. Thereforehe was all the more disappointed when it was taken away from him byCyrus, the Persian. No, Mrs. Grumble, what you can lose is no greatgood to any one. 

"If you wish, " he added, "I will dry the dishes, and you can spend theevening in the village. "

As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, hethought: "When I die, I should like it said of me: By his own efforts, he remained a poor man. " And he stood still, the dishtowel in hishand, thinking of that wealthy iron-master, whose epitaph is said toread: Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better menthan himself. 

When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den. This littleroom, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above BarlyHill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, andseveral shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, aKing James' Bible, Arrian's Epictetus, Sabatier's life of SaintFrancis, the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervastranslation of Don Quixote. Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in theevening he smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whosehumor, gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by thenegligence of his pupils. 

On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr. Jeminy knocked the ashes outof his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began tocorrect his pupils' exercises. He was still engaged at this task whenMr. Tomkins came to call. 

"A fine evening, " said Mr. Tomkins from the doorway. 

"Come in, William, " cried Mr. Jeminy, "come in. A fine evening, indeed. Well, this is very nice, I must say. "

Mr. Tomkins was older than Mr. Jeminy. His once great frame was driedand bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lipswere drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met. Buthis eyes were bright and active. Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy's study, hislarge, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn, graspinghis hat. 

"Another year, Jeminy, " he said, in a voice shrill with age, "anotheryear. Time to shingle old man Crabbe's roof again. I'm spry yet. "And resting a lean finger alongside his nose, he gave sound to a laughlike a peal of broken bells. 

In his old age Mr. Tomkins was still agile; he crawled out on a roof, ripped up rotted shingles, and put down new ones in their place. Tosee him climb to the top of a ladder, filled Mr. Jeminy with anxiety. 

"You'll die, " he said, "with a hammer in your hand. "

"Then, " said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll die as I've lived. "

"That's strange enough, " said Mr. Jeminy, "when you come to think ofit. For men are born into this world hungry and crying. But they diein silence and slip away without touching anything. "

Mr. Tomkins cleared his throat, and watched his fingers run around hishat's brim. He wanted to tell Mr. Jeminy some news; but it occurred tohim that it was no more than a rumor. Finally he said: "There's a newschool-ma'am over to North Adams. " He cocked his head sidewise to lookat the schoolmaster. "She knows more than you, Jeminy, " he said. 

Mr. Jeminy sat bowed and still, his hands folded in his lap. Heremembered how he had come to Hillsboro thirty years before, a youngman full of plans and fancies. He was soon to learn that what had beengood enough for Great Grandfather Ploughman, was thought to be goodenough for his grandson, also. Mr. Jeminy remained in Hillsboro, atfirst out of hope, later out of habit. At last it seemed to him as ifHillsboro were his home. "Where else should I go?" he had askedhimself. "Here is all I have in the world. Here are my only friends. Well, after all, " he said to himself more than once, "I am not wastedhere, exactly. " And he tried to comfort himself with this reflection. 

He had started out to build a new school in the wilderness. "I shallteach my pupils something more than plus and minus, " he declared. Heremembered a little verse he used to sing in those days:

 Laws, manuals, And texts incline us To cheat with plus And rob with minus. 

But it had all slipped away, like sand through his fingers. Now hehoped to find one child to whom he could say what was in his mind. 

One by one the brighter boys had drifted off to the county schools, leaving the little schoolhouse to the dull and to the young. Some weretaken out of classes early, and added, like another pig, to the farms. Girls, when they were old enough, were kept at home to help theirmothers; after a while they, too, married; then their education wasover. In the winter they nailed the windows shut; in the summer theyworked with the men, hoarded their pennies, and prayed to God at first, but only wished at last, to do better than their neighbors. 

Of all whom Mr. Jeminy had taught reading, writing and arithmetic, notone was either better or happier than in childhood. 

"Not one, " said Mr. Jeminy, "is tidy of mind, or humble of heart. Notone has learned to be happy in poverty, or gentle in good fortune. "

"There's no poverty to-day, " said Mr. Tomkins simply. It really seemedto him as though every one were well off, because the war was over. 

"There is more poverty to-day than ever before, " said Mr. Jeminy. 

"Hm, " said Mr. Tomkins. 

"Last fall, " said Mr. Jeminy, "Sara Barly and Mrs. Grumble helped eachother put up vegetables. And Anna Barly came to my cottage, holdingout her apron, full of apples. "

"My wife, too, " said Mr. Tomkins, "put up a great many vegetables. "

"But to-day, " said Mr. Jeminy, "Mrs. Barly and Mrs. Grumble pass eachother without speaking. And because we are no longer at war, the bitof land belonging to Ezra Adams, where, last spring, Mrs. Wicketplanted her rows of corn, is left to grow its mouthful of hay, to sellto Mr. Frye. "

"Ah, " said Mr. Tomkins wisely, "that's it. Well, Mrs. Wicket, now. Still, " he added, "he'll have a lot of nettles in that hay. "

"The rich, " Mr. Jeminy continued, "quarrel with the poor, and the poor, by way of answer, with rich and poor alike. And rich or poor, everyman reaches for more, like a child at table. That is why, William, there is poverty to-day; poverty of the heart, of the mind, and of thespirit. 

"And yet, " he added stoutly a moment later, "I'll not deny there isplenty of light; yes, we are wise enough, there is love in ourhearts . . . Perhaps, William, heaven will be found when old men likeyou and me, who have lost our way, are dead. "

"Lost our way?" quavered Mr. Tomkins, "lost our way? What are youtalking about, Jeminy?"

But the fire, burning so brightly before, was almost out. "Youth, "said Mr. Jeminy sadly . . . And he sat quite still, staring straightahead of him. 

"Well, " said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll be stepping on home. " Clapping his hatsomewhat uncertainly onto his head, he rose to go. Mr. Jeminyaccompanied him to the door. 

"Good-night, " he said. 

"Good-night, " said Mr. Tomkins. And off he went along the path, totell his wife, as he got into bed, that she was a lucky woman. But Mr. Jeminy stood in the doorway, gazing out across the hills, like Davidover Hebron. Below him the last late lanterns of the village burned inthe valley. He heard the shrill kreef kreedn kreedn of the tree frogs, the cheep of crickets, the lonely barking of a dog, ghostly and faraway; he breathed the air of night, cold, and sweet with honeysuckle. Age was in bed; only the young moved and whispered in the shadows;youth, obscure and immortal; love and hope, love and sorrow. From themeadows ascended the choir of cicada: katy did, katy didn't, katydid. . . . 

Mr. Jeminy turned and went indoors. 

II

SCHOOL LETS OUT

The next day being a holiday, Mr. Jeminy lay in bed, watching, throughhis window, the branches of an oak tree, which is last of all to leaf. When he finally arose, the morning was already bright and hot; therooms were swept; all was in order. 

Later in the day he followed Mrs. Grumble to the schoolhouse, carryinga pail, soap, a scrubbing brush, and a broom. After Mr. Jeminy hadfilled the pail with water at the school pump, Mrs. Grumble got down onher knees, and began to scrub the floor. The schoolmaster went aheadwith the broom. "Sweep in all the corners, " she said. "For, " sheadded, "it's in the corners one finds everything. " As she spoke, thebrush, under her freckled hands, pushed forward a wave of soapy water, edged with foam, like the sea. 

Mr. Jeminy swept up and down with a sort of solemn joy; he even tookpride in the little mountain of brown dirt he had collected with hisbroom, and watched it leap across the threshold with regret. He wouldhave liked to keep it. . . . Then he could have said, "Well, at least, I took all this dirt from under the desks. "

The truth is that Mr. Jeminy was not a very good teacher. Although, asa young man, he had read, in Latin and Greek, the work of Stoics, Gnostics, and Fathers of the Church, and although he had opinions abouteverything, he was unable to teach his pupils what they wished tolearn, and they, in turn, were unable to understand what he wanted themto know. But that was not entirely his fault, for they came to schoolwith such questions as: "How far is a thousand miles?"

"It is the distance between youth and age, " said Mr. Jeminy. Then thechildren would start to laugh. 

"A thousand miles, " he would begin. . . . 

By the time he had explained it, they were interested in something else. 

This summer morning, a dusty fall of sunlight filled the littleschoolroom with dancing golden motes. It seemed to Mr. Jeminy that heheard the voices of innumerable children whispering together; and itseemed to him that one voice, sweeter than all the rest, spoke in hisown heart. "Jeminy, " it said, "Jeminy, what have you taught mychildren?"

Mr. Jeminy answered: "I have taught them to read the works ofcelebrated men, and to cheat each other with plus and minus. "

"Ah, " said another voice, with a dry chuckle like salt shaken in asaltcellar, "well, that's good. "

"Who speaks?" cried Mr. Jeminy. 

"What, " exclaimed the voice, "don't you know me, old friend? I am plusand minus; I am weights and measures. . . . "

"Lord ha' mercy, " cried Mrs. Grumble from the floor, "have you gonemad? Whatever are you doing, standing there, with your mouth open?"

"Eh!" said Mr. Jeminy, stupidly. "I was dreaming. "

A red squirrel sped across the path, and stopped a moment in thedoorway, his tail arched above his back, his bright, black eyes peeringwithout envy at Mrs. Grumble, as she bent above the pail of soap-suds. Then, with a flirt of his tail, he hurried away, to hide from othersquirrels the nuts, seeds, and acorns strewn by the winds of the autumnimpartially over the earth. 

In the afternoon, Mr. Jeminy went into his garden, and began to measureoff rows of vegetables. "Two rows of beans, " he said, "and two ofradishes; they grow anywhere. I'll get Crabbe to give me onion sets, cabbages, and tomato plants. Two rows of peas, and one of lettuce; Imust have fine soil for my lettuce, and I must remember to plant mypeas deeply. A row of beets. . . . "

"Where, " said Mrs. Grumble, who stood beside him, holding the hoe, "areyou going to plant squash?"

". . . And carrots, " continued Mr. Jeminy hurriedly. . . . 

"We must certainly have a few hills of squash, " said Mrs. Grumblefirmly. 

"Oh, " said Mr. Jeminy, "squash. . . . "

He had left it out on purpose, because he disliked it. "You see, " hesaid finally, looking about him artlessly, "there's no more room. "

"Go away, " said Mrs. Grumble. 

From his seat under a tree, to which he had retired, Mr. Jeminy watchedMrs. Grumble mark the rows, hoe the straight, shallow furrows, drop inthe seeds, and cover them with earth again. As he watched, half inindignation, he thought: "Thus, in other times, Ceres sowed the earthwith seed, and, like Mrs. Grumble, planted my garden with squash. Iwould have asked her rather to sow melons here. " Just then Mrs. Grumble came to the edge of the vegetable garden. 

"Seed potatoes are over three dollars a bushel, " she said: "it's hardlyworth while putting them in. "

"Then let's not put any in, " Mr. Jeminy said promptly, "for they aredifficult to weed, and when they are grown you must begin to quarrelwith insects, for whose sake alone, I almost think, they grow at all. "

"The bugs fall off, " said Mrs. Grumble, "with a good shaking. "

"Fie, " said Mr. Jeminy, "how slovenly. It is better to kill them withlime. But it is best of all not to tempt them; then there is no needto kill them. "

And as Mrs. Grumble made no reply, he added:

"That is something God has not learned yet. "

"Please, " said Mrs. Grumble, "speak of God with more respect. "

After supper Mr. Jeminy sat in his study reading the story of SaintFrancis, the Poor Brother of Assisi. One day, soon after the saint hadleft behind him the gay affairs of town, to embrace poverty, for Jesus'sake, and while he was still living in a hut of green branches near thelittle chapel of Saint Damian, he beheld his father coming to upbraidhim for what he considered his son's obstinate folly. At once SaintFrancis, who was possessed of a quick wit, began to gather together anumber of old stones, which he tried to place one on top of the other. But as fast as he put them up, the stones, broken and uneven, fell downagain. "Aha, " cried old Bernadone, when he came up to his son, "I seehow you are wasting your time. What are you doing? I am sick of you. "

"I am building the world again, " said Francis mildly; "it is all themore difficult because, for building material, I can find nothing butthese old stones. "

Mr. Jeminy gave his pupils their final examination in a meadow belowthe schoolhouse. There, seated among the dandelions, with voices asshrill as the crickets, they answered his questions, and watched theclouds, like great pillows, sail on the wind from west to east. Underthe shiny sky, among the warm, sweet fields, Mr. Jeminy looked no moreimportant than a robin, and not much wiser. Had the children beenolder, they would have tried all the more to please him, but becausethey were young, they laughed, teased each other, blew on blades ofgrass, and made dandelion chains. Mr. Jeminy examined the FifthReader. "Bound the United States, " he said. 

"On the west by the Pacific Ocean, " began a red-cheeked plowboy, towhom the ocean was no more than hearsay. 

"Where is San Francisco?"

"San Francisco is in California. "

"Where is Seattle?"

But no one knew. Then Mr. Jeminy thought to himself, "I am not muchwiser than that. For I think that Seattle is a little black period ona map. But to them, it is a name, like China, or Jerusalem; it ishere, or there, in the stories they tell each other. And I believetheir Seattle is full of interesting people. "

"Well, then, " he said, "let me hear you bound Vermont. "

That was something everybody knew. 

He took the First and Second Reader through their sums. "Two applesand two apples make . . . "

"Four apples. "

"And three apples from eight apples leave . . . "

"Five apples. "

When spelling time came, the children, going down to the foot, rolledover each other in the grass, with loud shouts. At last only two wereleft to dispute the letters in asparagus, elephant, constancy, andphilosophical. Then Mr. Jeminy gathered the children about him. 

"The year is over, " he said, "and you are free to play again. But donot forget over the summer what you learned with so much difficultyduring the winter. Let me say to you who will not return to school: Ihave taught you to read, to write, to add and subtract; you know alittle history, a little geography. Do not be proud of that. Thereare many things to learn; but you would not be any happier for havinglearned them. 

"You will ask me what this has to do with you. I would like to teachyou to be happy. For happiness is not in owning much, but in owninglittle: love, and liberty, the work of one's hands, fellowship, andpeace. These things have no value; they are not to be bought; but theyalone are worth having. Do not envy the rich man, for cares destroyhis sleep. And do not ask the poor man not to sing, for song is all hehas. 

"Love poverty, and labor, the poverty of love, the wealth of the heart. 

"Be wise and honest farmers. 

"School is over. You may go. "

The children ran away, laughing; the boys hurried off together to theswimming hole, their casual shouts stealing after them down the road. Mr. Jeminy, lying on his back in the grass, listened to them sadly. Asthe voices grew fainter and fainter, it seemed to him as if they weresaying: "School is over, school is over. " And he thought: "They arecounting the seasons. But to the old, the year is never done. "

Mr. Frye, who had been sitting quietly by the road during Mr. Jeminy'slittle speech to the children, now got up, and went back to thevillage, shaking his head solemnly with every step. 

III

THE BARLYS

The two hired men on Barly's farm rose in the dark and creptdownstairs. By sun-up, Farmer Barly was after them, in his brownoveralls; he came clumping into the barn, dusty with last year's hay, and peered about him in the yellow light. He opened the harness room, and took out harness for the farm wagons; he went to ask if the horseshad been watered. 

The cows were in pasture; in the wagon shed the two men, before a tinbasin, plunged their arms into water, flung it on their faces, andpuffed and sighed. The shed was cold, and redolent of earth. Outside, the odor of coffee, drifting from the house, mingled in the earlymorning air with clover and hay, cut in the fields, but not yet stored. 

Anna Barly, from her room, heard her mother moving in the kitchen, andsat up in bed. The patch-work quilt was fallen on the floor, where itlay as sleepy as its mistress. She tossed her hair back from her face;it spread broad and gold across her shoulders, and the wide sleeves ofher nightdress, falling down her arms, bared her round, brown elbows asshe caught it up again. 

In the kitchen, the two hired men, their faces wet and clean, pouredsugar over their lettuce, and talked with their mouths full. 

"I hear tell of a borer, like an ear-worm, spoiling the corn. . . . But there's none in our corn, so far as I can see. "

"Never been so much rain since I was born. "

"A bad year. "

"Well, " said Mrs. Barly, "that's no wonder, either, with prices whatthey are, and you two eating your heads off, for all the work you do. "

"Now, then, " said her husband hastily, "that's all right, too, mother. "

Anna stood at the sink, and washed the dishes. Her hands floatedthrough the warm, soapy water like lazy fish, curled around plates, swam out of pots; while her thoughts, drowsy, sunny in her head, passed, like her hands, from what was hardly seen to what was hardlyfelt. 

"Look after the milk, Anna, " said her mother, "while I go for somekindlings. " She went out, thin, stooped, her long, lean fingersfumbling with her apron; and she came back more bent than before. Sheput the wood down with a sigh. "A body's never done, " she said. 

Anna looked after the milk, all in a gentle phlegm. Her mother cooked, cleaned, scrubbed, carried water, fetched wood, set the house torights; in order to keep Anna fresh and plump until she was married. Anna, plump and wealthy, was a good match for any one: old Mr. Fryeused to smile when he saw her. "Smooth and sweet, " he used to say:"molasses . . . Hm . . . "

Now she stood dreaming by the stove, until her mother, climbing fromthe cellar, woke her with a clatter of coal. "Why, you big, awkwardgirl, " cried Mrs. Barly, "whatever are you dreaming about?"

Anna thought to herself: "I was dreaming of a thousand things. Butwhen I went to look at them . . . There was nothing left. "

"Nothing, " she said aloud. 

"Then, " said her mother doubtfully, "you might help me shell peas. "

The two women sat down together, a wooden bowl between them. The podssplit under their fingers, click, cluck; the peas fell into the bowllike shot at first, dull as the bowl grew full. Click, cluck, click, cluck . . . Anna began to dream again. "Oh, do wake up, " said hermother; "one would think . . . "

Anna's hands went startled into the peas. "I must be in love, " shesaid with half a smile. 

Mrs. Barly sighed. "Ak, " she said. 

Anna began to laugh. After a while she asked, "Do you think I'm inlove?"

"Like as not, " said her mother. 

"Well, then, " Anna cried, "I'm not in love at all--not now. "

Mrs. Barly let her fingers rest idly along the rim of the bowl. "WhenI was a girl . . . " she began. Then it was Anna's turn to sigh. 

"It seems like yesterday, " remarked Mrs. Barly, who wanted to say, "Iam still a young woman. "

Anna split pods gravely, her eyes bent on her task. The tone of hermother's voice, tart and dry, filled her mind with the sulky thoughtsof youth. "There's fewer alive to-day, " she said, "than when you werea girl. "

Mrs. Barly knew very well what her daughter meant. "Be glad there'sany left, " she replied, as she turned again to her shelling. 

Anna's round, brown finger moved in circles through the peas. "I'm tooyoung to marry, " she said, at last. 

"No younger than what I was. "

But it seemed to Anna as though life had changed since those days. Forevery one was reaching for more. And Anna, too, wanted more . . . Morethan her mother had had. "If I wait, " she said in a low voice, "to . . . See a bit of life . . . What's the harm?"

The pod in Mrs. Barly's hand cracked with a pop, and trembled in theair, split open like the covers of a book. "I declare, " she exclaimed, "I don't know what to think . . . Well . . . Wait . . . I suppose youwant to be like Mrs. Wicket?"

"No, I don't, " said Anna. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Barly, in a shaking voice, "yes . . . Wait . . . You'll see a bit of something . . . A taste of the broom, perhaps. . . . "

While the two women looked after the house, the hired men worked in thefields, under the hot sun, their wet, cotton shirts open at the neck, their faces shaded with wide straw hats. Farmer Barly leaned againstone side of a tumbled-down wooden fence, and old Mr. Crabbe against theother. 

"This year, " said Farmer Barly, "I'm going to put up a silo in my barn. And instead of straw to cover it, I'm going to plant oats on top. "

"Go along, " said Mr. Crabbe. 

"Well, it's a fact, " said Mr. Barly. "I'm building now, back of thecows. "

"Digging, you might say, " corrected Mr. Crabbe. 

"Building, by God, " said Mr. Barly. 

Mr. Crabbe tilted back his head and cast a look of wonder at the sky. "A hole is a hole, " he said finally. 

"So it is, " agreed Mr. Barly, "so it is. It takes a Republican to findthat out. " And, greatly amused at his own wit, Mr. Barly, who was aDemocrat, slapped his knee and burst out laughing. 

"Yes, sir, " said Mr. Crabbe solemnly, with pious joy, "I'm aRepublican . . . A good Republican, Mr. Barly, like my father beforeme. " He smote his fist into his open palm. "I'll vote the Democratsblue in the face. If a man can't vote for his own advantage, what'sthe ballot for? I say let's mind our own business. And let me get myhands on what I want. "

"Get what you can, " said Mr. Barly. 

"And the devil take the hindmost. "

"It's all the same to me, " quoth Mr. Barly, "folks being mostly alikeas two peas. "

Mr. Crabbe spat into the stubble. "The way I look at it, " he said, "it's like this: first, there's me; and then there's you. That's theway I look at it, Mr. B. "

And he went home to repeat to his wife what he had said to FarmerBarly. "I gave it to him, " he declared. 

In another field, Abner and John Henry, who had been to war, alsodiscussed politics. They agreed that the pay they received for theirwork was inadequate. It seemed to them to be the fault of thegovernment, which was run for the benefit of others besides themselves. 

That afternoon, Mr. Jeminy, with Boethius under his arm, came intoFrye's General Store, to buy a box of matches for Mrs. Grumble. As hepaid for them, he said to Thomas Frye, who had been his pupil inschool: "These little sticks of wood need only a good scratch toconfuse me, for a moment, with the God of Genesis. But they alsoencourage Mrs. Grumble to burn, before I come down in the morning, thebits of paper on which I like to scribble my notes. "

At that moment, old Mrs. Ploughman entered the store to buy a paper ofpins. "Well, " she cried, "don't keep me waiting all day. " But when Mr. Jeminy was gone, she said to Thomas Frye, "I guess I don't want anypins. What was it I wanted?"

Presently she went home again, without having bought anything. "It'sall the fault of that old man, " she said to herself; "he mixes a bodyup so. "

On his way home Mr. Jeminy passed, at the edge of the village, thelittle cottage where the widow Wicket lived with her daughter. SeeingMrs. Wicket in the garden, he stopped to wave his hand. Under herbonnet, the young woman looked up at him, her plain, thin face flushedwith her efforts in the garden patch. "I've never seen such weeds, "she cried. "You'd think . . . I don't know what you'd think. Theygrow and grow . . . "

Mr. Jeminy went up the hill toward his house, carrying the box ofmatches. As he walked, the little white butterflies, which dancedabove the road, kept him company; and all about him, in the meadows, among the daisies, the beetles, wasps, bees, and crickets, with fifes, flutes, drums, and triangles, were singing joyously together theCanticle of the Sun:

"Praised be the Lord God with all his creatures, but especially ourbrother, the sun . . . Fair he is, and shines, with a very greatsplendor . . . 

"Praised be the Lord for our sister, the moon, and for the stars, whichhe has set clear and lovely in heaven. 

". . . (and) for our brother, the wind, and for air and cloud, calm andall weather . . . 

". . . (and) for our mother, the earth, which does sustain us and keepus . . . 

"Praised be the Lord for all those who pardon one another . . . And whoendure weakness and tribulation; blessed are they who peaceably shallendure . . . "

Slowly, to the tonkle of herds in pasture, the crowing of cocks, andthe thin, clear clang of the smithy, the full sun sank in the west. For a time all was quiet, as night, the shadow of the earth, creptbetween man and God. 

After supper Thomas Frye, in his father's wagon, went to call on AnnaBarly. 

From her porch where she sat hidden by vines which gave forth an odorsweeter than honey, the night was visible, pale and full of shadows. To the boy beside her, timid and ardent, the silence of her parentsseemed, like the night, to be full of opinions. 

"Well . . . Shall we go for a ride?"

Anna called in to her mother, "I'm going for a ride with Tom. "

"Don't be late, " said her mother. 

The two went down the path, and climbed into the buggy; soon the yellowlantern, swung between its wheels, rolled like a star down the road toMilford. 

"Why so quiet, Tom?"

"Am I, Ann?"

"Angry?"

"Just thinking . . . So to say. "

"Oh. " And she began to hum under her breath. 

"I was just thinking, " he said again. 

Then, solemnly, he added, "about things. "

"About you and me, " he wound up finally. 

When she offered him a penny for his thoughts, he said, "Well . . . Nothing. "

"Dear me. "

At his hard cluck the wagon swept forward. "You know what I wasthinking, " he said. 

"Do I?" asked Anna innocently. 

"Don't you?"

"Perhaps. "

So they went on through the dark, under the trees, to Milford. Whentheir little world, smelling of harness, came to a halt in front of thedrug store, they descended to quench their thirst with syrup, gas, milk, and lard. Then, with dreamy faces, they made their way to themovies. 

Now their hands are clasped, but they do not notice each other. Forthey do not know where they are; they imagine they are acting upon thescreen. It is a mistake which charms and consoles them both. "Howbeautiful I am, " thinks Anna drowsily, watching Miss Gish. "And howelegant to be in love. "

Later Anna will say to herself: "Other people's lives are like that. "

On the way home she sat smiling and dreaming. The horse ran brisklythrough the night mist; and the wheels, rumbling over the ground, turned up the thoughts of simple Thomas Frye, only to plow them underagain. 

"Ann, " he said when they were more than half-way home, "don't you carefor me . . . Any more?" As he spoke, he cut at the black trees withhis long whip. 

"Yes, I do, Tom. "

"As much as you did?"

"Just as much. "

"More, Ann?"

"Maybe. "

"Then . . . Will you? Say, will you, Ann?"

"I don't know, Tom. Don't ask me. Please. "

"But I've got to ask you, " he cried. 

"Oh, what's the good. " And she looked away, to where the faint lightof the lantern fled along beside them, over the trees. 

"Is it, " he said slowly, "is it no?"

"Well, then--no. "

Thomas was silent. At last he asked, "Is it a living man, Ann?"

"No, " said Anna. 

"Is it a dead man, now?"

Anna moved uneasily. "No, it isn't, " she said. "'Tisn't anybody. "

But Thomas persisted. "Would it be Noel, if he warn't dead in France?"

"Maybe. "

"You're not going to keep on thinking of him, are you?"

"I don't plan to. "

"Then--" and Thomas came back to the old question once more, "why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Take me, then?"

"Well, " she said vaguely, "I'm too young. "

"I'd wait. "

"'Twouldn't help any. I want so much, Tom . . . You couldn't give meall I want. "

He said, "What is it I couldn't give you?"

"I don't know, Tom . . . I want what other people have . . . Experiences . . . "

At his bitter laugh, she was filled with pity for herself. "Is it sofunny?" she asked. "I don't care. "

"Whatever's got into you, Ann?"

"I don't know there's anything got into me beyond I don't want to growold--and dry. . . . "

"I don't see as you can help it any. "

But Anna was tipsy with youth: she swore she'd be dead before she wasold. 

"Hush, Ann. "

"Why should I hush?" she asked. "It's the truth. "

"It's a lie, that's what it is, " said Thomas. 

"Do you hate me, Tom?" she said. And she sat looking steadily beforeher. 

"I don't know what's got into you. You act so queer. "

"I want to be happy, " she whispered. 

"Then . . . You can do as you like for all of me. "

But as they rode along in silence, wrapped in mist, she drew closer tohim, all her reckless spirit gone. "There . . . You've made me cry, "she said, and put her hand, cold and moist, into his. 

"Aren't you going to kiss me, Tom?"

He slapped the reins bitterly across his horse's back. "What's thegood of that?" he asked, in turn. 

"Perhaps, " she said faintly, "there isn't any. Oh, I don't know . . . What's the difference?"

And so they rode on in silence, with pale cheeks and strange thoughts. 

IV

MR. JEMINY BUILDS A HOUSE OUT OF BOXES

Mr. Jeminy liked to call on Mrs. Wicket, whose little cottage, at theedge of the village, on the way to Milford, had belonged to Eben Wicketfor nearly fifty years. Now it belonged to the widow of Eben's son, John. Mr. Jeminy remembered John Wicket as a boy in school. He was arogue; his head was already so full of mischief, that it was impossibleto teach him anything. So he was not much wiser when he left school, than when he entered it. However, Mr. Jeminy was satisfied with hisinstruction. "With more knowledge, " the old schoolmaster thought tohimself, "he might do a great deal of harm in the world. So perhaps itis just as well for him to be ignorant. " And he consoled himself withthis reflection. 

A year later John Wicket ran away from home, taking with him the moneywhich his father kept in a stone jug in the kitchen. Old Mr. Wicketrefused to send after him. "I didn't need the money, " he said, "and Idon't need him. Well, they're both gone. "

But after a while, since his son was no longer there to plague him, hebegan to feel proud of him. "An out and out scamp, " he said, withrelish. "Never seen the like. "

John Wicket was gone for three years, no one knew where. At last Ebenreceived news of him again. His son, who had been living all this timein a nearby village, fell from a ladder and broke his neck. "Just, "said Eben Wicket, "as I expected. "

No one, however, expected to see his widow come to live with herfather-in-law. The old man himself went to fetch her and her year-oldchild. She proved to be a small, plain body, with an air of frightabout her, as though life had surprised her. Out of respect for Eben, as they put it, the gossips went to call. They found her shy, andinclined to be silent; they drank their tea, and examined her withcuriosity, while she, for her part, seemed to want to hide away. 

"As who wouldn't, in her place, " said Mrs. Ploughman. 

It was agreed that, having married an out-and-out rascal, she ought tobe willing to spend the remainder of her life quietly. So she was leftto herself, which seemed, on the face of it, to be about what shewanted. She tended Eben's house, drove the one cow to pasture, andsang to little Juliet from morning till night the songs she rememberedfrom her own childhood. 

During that time no one had any fault to find with her, excepting oldMrs. Crabbe, who thought she should have called her child Mary insteadof Juliet. "It's not a proper name, " she said to Mrs. Tomkins. "Itisn't in the Bible, Mrs. Tomkins. You'd do as well to call the childSalomy. Salomy's in the Bible. "

When Eben Wicket died, early in 1917, he left his house and about anacre of land to his daughter-in-law. She was poor; still, she hadenough to get along on. She was young, but every one thought of her asa woman whose life was over. So when Noel Ploughman took to keepingcompany with her, the gossips were all aflitter. It was June; theregulars were on their way to France; and what with the war, and Mrs. Wicket, the village had plenty to talk about. Old Mrs. Ploughman saidnothing, but regarded her friends with a gloomy and thoughtful air. Onthe other hand, Miss Beal, the dressmaker, saw no reason to keep heropinions to herself. "It's a scandal, " she said to her friend Mrs. Grumble; "what with Eben Wicket scarcely cold in his grave, and John athief, with his neck broke and heaven only knows what else besides. "

Nevertheless, that summer Noel Ploughman's sober, honest face was oftento be seen in Mrs. Wicket's garden patch, among the beans and thelettuces. Who can say what they found in one another to admire? Inhis company she was both happy and regretful, while he, seeing her byturns quiet and gay, could not determine which he found more charming. They talked over the weather together, and discussed the crops. Lovecomes slowly in the north; there is time for every one to take a handin it. August passed without either having mentioned what was in theirhearts. Then Mrs. Ploughman made up her mind to put an end to it. Oneday, when Noel was in Milford, she came to call on Mrs. Wicket. Onecan imagine what she said to the young woman, who was already a motherand a widow. The next day Mrs. Wicket appeared in her garden, pale andcomposed. Those who had occasion to pass the little cottage at theedge of the village, remarked that she no longer hummed under herbreath the gay tunes of her childhood. 

"Her sin has found her out, " said Miss Beal. "She's fallen by the way. "

"You'd think, " said Mrs. Crabbe, "she'd behave herself a speck, afterthe life she's had. "

Mrs. Grumble also was of the opinion that Mrs. Wicket had done wrong inallowing herself to care for Noel Ploughman. For it seemed to thegossips that Mrs. Wicket's life was, by rights, no longer her own to dowith. She was the earthly remains of a sinner; she had no right toenjoy herself. 

Two days later Noel Ploughman enlisted, "for the duration of the war. "His grandmother accepted the congratulations of Mrs. Crabbe and thesympathy of Mrs. Barly with equal satisfaction. It seemed to her thatshe had done her duty as she saw it. But when Noel was killed inFrance a year later, she felt that Mrs. Wicket had killed him. "Now, "she croaked to Mrs. Crabbe, "I hope she's satisfied. "

She seemed to be; she took the news of Noel's death with curious calm. It was almost as if she had been expecting it, looking for it . . . Onemight have thought she had been waiting for it. . . . After a while, she began to sing again. Her voice, as she crooned to Juliet, wasmusical, but quavery. It provoked the good women of the village, whobegan to think that perhaps, after all, she had "had her way. ""There's this much about it, " said Miss Beal; "no one else will havehim now. "

Mrs. Grumble agreed with her. She disliked Mrs. Wicket because Mr. Jeminy liked her. He pitied the young woman who had had the misfortuneto marry a thief, and he forgave her for wanting to be happy, becauseit did not seem to him that to have been the wife of a good-for-nothingwas much to settle down on. In his opinion, life owed her more thanshe had got. 

"She is simple and kind, " he said to Mrs. Grumble. "She has had verylittle to give thanks for. "

"She'll have more, then, if she can, " replied Mrs. Grumble with a tossof her head as though to say, "it's you who are simple. "

And she looked the other way, when they met on the road. Mr. Jeminy, on the other hand, often went to call at the little house at the edgeof the village. The young widow, who had no other callers, felt thatone friend was enough when he talked as much as Mr. Jeminy. While helaid open before her the great books of the past, illuminating theirpages with his knowledge and reflections, she listened with an air oftranquil pleasure. She counted the stitches on her sewing, andanswered "sakes alive, " in the pauses. 

One day in April she put on her best dress, and took the stage toMilford. When she came home again, in the evening, she brought withher a decorated shell for her friend. But it happened that Thomas Fryealso came home from Milford, by the same stage. That was what Mrs. Grumble was waiting for. "Now she's at it again, " said Mrs. Grumble. "She's bound to have some one, " she declared; "one or another, it's allthe same. " And she gazed meaningly at Mr. Jeminy, who started at oncefor his den, as though he were looking for something. 

Then she was delighted with herself, and retired to the kitchen. 

It was useless for Mr. Jeminy to retreat to his den. For sooner orlater, Mrs. Grumble always found something to do there. She would comein with her broom and her mop, and look around. Then Mr. Jeminy wouldwalk hastily out of the house and descend to the village. There, itwould occur to him to call on Mrs. Wicket, because he happened to havewith him a book he thought she would like to look at, or a flower forJuliet. Mrs. Wicket received each book with gratitude, and looked tosee if there were any pictures in it, before giving it back again. Juliet, on the other hand, wished to know the names of all the flowers. When Mr. Jeminy repeated their names in Latin, from the text-book onbotany, she clapped her hands, and jumped up and down, because it wasso comical. 

Now, in August, Mr. Jeminy was building her a doll's house in Mrs. Wicket's tumbledown barn. It was the sort of work he liked to engagein; no one expected him to be accurate, it was only necessary to usehis imagination. But Juliet, swinging her legs on top of the feed bin, regarded him with round and serious eyes. For in Juliet's opinion, Mr. Jeminy was involved in a difficult task; and she was afraid he mightnot be able to go through with it. 

"How many rooms, " she said, "is my doll's house going to have?"

"I had counted, " said Mr. Jeminy, "on two. " And he went over theplans, using his hammer as a pointer. "Here is the bedroom, " he said, "and there is the kitchen. There's where the stove is going to be. "

Juliet followed him without interest. It was apparent that she wasdisappointed. 

"Where's the parlor?" she demanded. 

"Must there be a parlor?" asked Mr. Jeminy, in surprise. 

"What do you think?" said Juliet. "I have to have a place for Anna tokeep company in. "

Anna was the youngest of her three dolls; that is to say, Anna wassmaller than either Sara or Margaret. It seemed to Juliet that to bewithout a parlor was to lack elegance. Mr. Jeminy rubbed his chin. "Isn't Anna very young, " he asked, "to keep company in the parlor?"

"No, she isn't, " said Juliet. 

Then, as Mr. Jeminy made no reply, she added, "She's six, going onseven. "

Mr. Jeminy sighed. "Is she indeed?" he remarked absently. "It is acharming age. I wish I were able to see the world again through theeyes of six, going on seven. What a noble world it would seem, full ofpleasant people. "

"So, " declared Juliet, "we have to have a parlor. "

However, she could not sit still very long. 

Presently she hopped down from the feed bin. "Look, " she said, "thisis the way to fly. " She began to dance about, waving her arms. "This, " she declared, "is the way the bees go. " And she ran up anddown, crying "buzz, buzz. "

She decided to play house, by herself. Arranging her three dolls, madeof rags and sawdust, on top of the bin, she stood before them, with herfingers in her mouth. Then all at once she began to play. 

"My goodness, " she exclaimed, "I'm surprised at you. Look at yourclothes, every which way. Margaret, do sit up. And Sara--you'll bethe death of me, with all my work to do yet, and everything. "

"How do you do, Mrs. Henry Stove, " she added, addressing a three-leggedstool, "come right in and sit down. 

"Terrible hot weather we're having. Worst I ever see. "

She moved busily about, humming a song to herself. "I declare, it'stime you went to school, children, " she said finally, stopping to lookat her family. 

Without trouble, she became the school teacher. Propping her threedolls more firmly against the wall, she took her stand directly infront of them. "Do you know your lessons, children?" she asked. Thenshe squeaked back to herself, "Yes, ma'am. "

"Well, then, Margaret, what's the best cow for butter?"

Mr. Jeminy began to laugh. But almost at once he became serious andconfused. For it occurred to him that he did not know what cow wasbest for butter. "This child, " he thought, "who cannot tell me why itis necessary to take two apples from four apples, is nevertheless ableto distinguish between one cow and another. She is wiser than I am. "

He stood gazing thoughtfully at Juliet, and smiling. The sun of lateafternoon, already about to sink in the west, was shining through thewindow, covered with dust and cobwebs. And Mr. Jeminy, watching thedust dancing in the sun, thought to himself: "I should like to stayhere; it is peaceful and friendly. I should like to help Mrs. Wicketplant her little garden in the spring, and plow it under in the autumn. Now it is growing late and I must go home again. "

Juliet had tired of her play. "Tell me a story, " she said. "Tell meabout the war, Mr. Jeminy. Tell me about Noel Ploughman. "

But Mr. Jeminy shook his head. "No, " he said, "it is time to driveyour mother's cow home from the fields. Some other day I will tell youabout the great wars of old, fought for no other reason than glory andempire, which disappointed no one, except the vanquished. But there isno time now. Come; we will go for the cow together. "

Hand in hand they went down the road toward Mr. Crabbe's field, whereMrs. Wicket rented pasturage for her cow. The sun was sinking abovethe trees; and they heard, about them, in the fields, the silence ofevening, the song of the crickets and cicadas. 

They found the cows gathered at the pasture bars, with sweet, mistybreath, their bells clashing faintly as they moved. "Go 'long, " criedJuliet, switching her little rod, to single out her own. And to thepatter of hoofs and the tonkle of bells, they started home again. 

Mrs. Wicket, in the kitchen, watched them from her window, in theclear, fading light. "How good he is, " she thought. And she turned, with a smile and a sigh, to set the table for Juliet's supper. 

Juliet was singing along the roadside. "A tisket, " she sang, "atasket, a green and yellow basket . . . " And she chanted, to a tune ofher own, an old verse she had once heard Mr. Jeminy singing:

 When I was a young man, I said, bright and bold, I would be a great one, When I was old. 

 When I was a young man, But that was long ago, I sang the merry old songs All men know. 

 When I was a young man, When I was young and smart, I think I broke a mirror, Or a girl's heart. 

Mr. Jeminy walked in the middle of the road, under the dying sky, already lighted by the young moon, in the west. As he walked, thefresh air of evening, blowing on his face, with its sweet odors, thetwilight notes of birds among the leaves, the faint acclaim of bells, and Juliet's childish singing, filled his heart with unaccustomedpeace, moved him with gentle and deliberate joy. He remembered thevoices he had heard in the little schoolhouse in the spring. 

"Jeminy, what are you doing?"

Then Mr. Jeminy raised his head to the sky, in which the first stars ofnight were to be seen. 

"I am very busy now, " he said, proudly. 

V

RAIN

From her dormer window, Anna Barly peered out at the wet, gray morning. The ground was sopping, the trees black with the night's drenching. Inthe orchard a sparrow sang an uncertain song; and she heard thecomfortable drip, drip, drip from the eaves. It was damp and fresh atthe window; the breeze, cold and fragrant after rain, made her shiver. She drew her wrapper closer about her throat, and sat staring outacross the sodden lawn, with idle thoughts for company. 

She thought that she was young, and that the world was old: that rainbelonged to youth. Old age should sit in the sun, but youth was bestof all in bad weather. "There's no telling where you are in the rain. And there's no one spying, for every one's indoors, keeping dry. " Yes, youth is quite a person in the rain. 

With slim, lazy fingers, she began to braid her long, fair hair. Itseemed to her that folks were always peering and prying, to make surethat every one else was like themselves. "You're doing different thanwhat I did, " they said. 

Anna wanted to "do different. " Yet she was without courage or wisdom. And because she was sulky and heedless, Mrs. Ploughman called her SaraBarly's rebellious daughter. As Mrs. Ploughman belonged to theMethodist side of the town, Mrs. Tomkins was usually ready to disagreewith her. But on this occasion, all Mrs. Tomkins could think to say, was: "Well, that's queer. "

"But what's she got to be rebellious over?" she asked, peering brightlyat Mrs. Ploughman. 

"Perhaps, " said Mrs. Ploughman, "she's sorry she wasn't born a boy. "

"Well, " cried Mrs. Tomkins, "I never heard of such a thing. "

"There's lots you never heard of, Mrs. Tomkins, " said Mrs. Ploughman. 

"And plenty I never hope to hear, " said Mrs. Tomkins promptly. "Mylife!"

After breakfast, Anna helped her mother with the housework. She took ahand in making the beds, and put her own room in order by tumblingeverything into the closet and shutting the door. Then she went intothe kitchen to help with the lunch. When Mrs. Barly saw her dreamingover the carrots, she asked:

"What are you gaping at now?"

"Nothing. "

Then Mrs. Barly grew vexed. "You're not feeble-minded, I hope, " shesaid. 

"No, I'm not, " said Anna. 

"I'm glad of that, " said Mrs. Barly. 

When Anna said that she was not thinking of anything, she believed thatshe was telling the truth. But as a matter of fact, she was thinkingof Thomas Frye. She wanted him to be in love with her, although shesaid to herself: "I am not in love with any one. " Sometimes shethought that her heart was buried in France, with Noel Ploughman. However, she was mistaken. The tear she dropped in secret over hisdeath, was for her own youth, out of her timid, clumsy, sweet-and-sourfeelings. 

In the afternoon she went for a walk. The rain, starting again afterbreakfast, had stopped, but the sky was still overcast, the air dampand searching. From the trees overhead as she passed, icy drops raineddown upon her; she felt the silence all about her, and saw, from therises, the gray hills, the rolling mist, and the low clouds, trailingabove the woods, now light, now dark. 

She was disappointed because life was no different than it was. Shehad hoped to find it as delightful as in those happy days before thewar, when she played at kissing games and twined dandelion wreaths inher hair. But now it did not amuse her to play at post-office; she wassad because she was no longer able to be gay. As she passed the littlecottage belonging to Mrs. Wicket, she thought to herself: "Yes, you'veseen something of life. But not what I want to see, exactly. Look atyou. " Like Mrs. Grumble, she believed that Mrs. Wicket had nothingmore to live for. "There you are, " she said, "and there you'll be. Life doesn't mean even as much as a hayride, so far as you're concerned. 

"You, God, " she cried, "put something in my way, just once. "

At that moment Juliet, who had been peeking out from behind the house, came skipping down the path to the road. As she drew near, herprogress became slower; finally she stood still, and balanced herselfon one leg, like a stork. 

"Hello, " she said. Then she looked up and down the road, to see whatthere was to talk about. 

"I have a little house Mr. Jeminy made me out of boxes, " she said atlast. 

"No, " said Anna. 

"Well, that's a fact, " said Juliet, who had once heard Mr. Frye say, "Well, that's a fact, " to Mr. Crabbe. 

"My goodness, " said Anna, "isn't that elegant?" And she looked down atJuliet, who was staring solemnly up at her. 

"Yes, it is, " said Juliet. 

"What were you doing, " asked Anna, "when I came along?"

"I was playing going to Milford, " said Juliet. "Do you want to playwith me?"

It seemed to Juliet that playing was something for any one to do. 

Anna began to laugh. She had a mind to say, "Do you think I'm aslittle as you are?" But instead, she found herself thinking, "Oh, my, wouldn't it be fun. "

"Why, " she cried, "I declare, I do want to play with you. "

"All right, " said Juliet. And she turned soberly back to the barn, behind the house. But Anna sat down in the grass. "Just you wait, "she said, "till I get my shoes and stockings off. I'm going to playproper. "

Presently their happy voices, linked in laughter, rose from behind thehouse, where Juliet was showing Anna how to play store. She tied herapron around her little belly, and came forward rubbing her hands. "Would you like some nice licorice?" she asked. "Everything's verydear. "

When she was tired of playing store, she began to imitate old Mrs. Tomkins, the carpenter's wife. "This is the way to have therheumatism, " she said. And she hopped around on one foot. 

After they were through playing, they sat quietly together in the hay, in the barn, without anything more to say. Anna was warm and happy;she wanted to hug Juliet, to hold her tight, to rock up and down withher. "There, " she thought, "if I only had one like her. "

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, to tease her. 

"I was just thinking, " said Juliet, "it's fun to play with people. "

Anna felt her heart give a sudden twist. "Why, you dear, odd littlething, " she cried. And taking the child in her arms, she covered thetiny head with kisses. But Juliet drew away. 

"I'm not little, " she said. "I'm old. "

"So am I old, " said Anna. She felt the joy run out of her; it left herempty. "I expect everybody in the world is old, " she said. Shewatched her hands move about in the hay like great spiders. 

"Is it fun to be old, do you think?" asked Juliet. 

"I don't know, " said Anna. "I don't expect it is, much. "

"Mother is old, " said Juliet. "What do old people do?"

Anna looked out through the barn door across the wet fields, thedrenched hillsides, shrouded in mist. "I don't know, " she said. Andshe got up to go home. 

"Well, good-by, " said Juliet. 

Just then Mrs. Wicket came in from the road, with a basket on her arm. When she saw Anna standing in front of the barn she grew pink andconfused. For she thought that Anna had come to call on her. "Goodafternoon, " she said. "I was out. I'm real sorry. Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no, " said Anna. "I was going on . . . I only stopped for aminute. . . . "

And without another word she ran down the path, and out of the gate. Mrs. Wicket stood looking after her in silence. Then, with a sigh, sheturned, and went indoors. But Anna ran and ran until she was tired. As she ran she kept saying to herself, over and over, "I won't be likethat, I won't, I won't. "

It seemed to her as though she were running away from Hillsboro itself, running away from Mrs. Wicket, from her mother, from Thomas Frye, fromAnna Barly, from everything she wouldn't be. . . . 

"I won't, " she cried, "I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't. "

"Never. "

Mr. Jeminy, who was seated on his coat by the side of the road, got upwith a smile. "Well, Anna Barly, " he said. 

"Ak, " she whispered, clapping both hands to her mouth, "how you scaredme. " She could feel her heart beating with fright; her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears. She stood staring at Mr. Jeminy, whostared gravely back at her. "Are you going to run away from me, too?"he asked, at last. 

"No, " said Anna. Then, all at once, she burst out crying. "I can'thelp it, " she cried, between her sobs. "I can't help it. Don't lookat me. "

"No, " said Mr. Jeminy, "I won't. " And he gazed up at the tree tops, dark and sharp against the cold, gray sky. 

Anna cried herself out. Then pale and ashamed, she started home againwith Mr. Jeminy. "I don't know what got into me, " she said. "I don'tknow what you'll think. "

"I think, " declared Mr. Jeminy, looking up at the sky, "I think--why, Ithink this wet weather will pass, Anna Barly. Yes, to-morrow will becold and clear. "

Anna did not answer him. She was tired; she had played, she had cried, now she wanted to rest. 

In Frye's General Store, Mr. Frye and Mr. Crabbe were disputing a gameof checkers. They sat opposite each other, stared at the checkerboard, and stroked their chins. Farmer Barly stood watching them. He puffedon his pipe, and nodded his head at every move. But all the while hewas thinking about Anna. "Pretty near time she was settling down, " hethought. 

Mr. Frye jumped over two, and leaned back in his chair with a satisfiedsmile. The hops of his own men put him into the best of humor. It wasnot that he wanted to win; he only wanted to do all the jumping. "Letme do the taking, " he would have said, "and you can do the winning. "When Mr. Crabbe hopped over three in a row, Mr. Frye became gloomy. Hefelt that Mr. Crabbe was getting all the pleasure. "You're too spryfor me, " he said. "You're like a flea. Well. . . . "

"It's your turn, Mr. F. , " said Mr. Crabbe. 

Mr. Frye looked at the board with distaste. There were no more jumpsfor him to make. He pushed a round black checker forward. 

"There you are, " he said. 

"Here I go, " declared Mr. Crabbe. And he began hopping again. 

Mr. Frye shook his head. "I don't know as I'm feeling very goodto-day, " he told Farmer Barly. 

As he was speaking, Anna Barly entered the store, on her way home. Thomas Frye, who was behind the counter, came forward to meet her. When she saw him, her cheeks, which were pale, grew red. "He can see Iwas crying, " she thought. "Well, I don't care. I hate him. What didI stop for?"

She remembered that her mother had wanted a spool of white cotton. "Number eleven, " she said. 

When she saw her father and Mr. Frye in the corner, she grew sulkierthan ever. "They're just laying to settle me down, " she thought. Andturning to hide her face, still stained with tears, she made believe towave to some one, out the window. 

Mr. Crabbe took another man. "Tsck, " said Mr. Frye; "maybe I'd bettergo and see what Anna wants. Thomas don't appear to know what he'sabout. "

"Leave them be, " said Mr. Crabbe, "leave them be. " And he winked firstat Mr. Barly, and then at Mr. Frye. "Don't go spoiling things, " hesaid. 

Mr. Frye allowed his mouth to droop in a thin smile. "Young people areslow to-day, " he remarked. "They act like they had something on theirminds. Green fruit . . . Slow to ripe. In my time we went at itsmarter. " And he looked thoughtfully at Anna Barly. He saw her in theform of acres of land, live stock, farm buildings, and money in thebank. "Molasses, " he thought; "yes, sir, molasses. Maple sugar. " Butwhen he looked at his son Thomas, he frowned. "Go on, " he wanted tosay, "go on, you slowpoke. "

Farmer Barly also frowned at Thomas Frye. He felt that he was beinghurried. "She's well enough where she is, " he thought. "She's youngyet. A year or two more . . . "

"Well, " said Mr. Crabbe, "I look forward to the day. " And he waved hishand kindly in the air. "It's your move, Mr. F. "

Mr. Frye arose, and walked toward the door, where Thomas was biddingAnna good-by. "See you to-night, " Thomas whispered; "heh, Anna?"

"Please yourself, " said Anna. And off she went, without looking at Mr. Frye, who had come to speak to her. When she was gone, Mr. Frye gavehis son a keen glance. In it was both curiosity and malice. ButThomas turned away. It seemed to him that women must have been easierto understand when his father was young. For no one could understandthem now. 

While the storekeeper's back was turned, Mr. Crabbe rearranged thecheckerboard. He took up two of Mr. Frye's men and put them in hispocket. Then he winked at Mr. Barly, as though to say: "I'm just aleetle too smart for him. "

Farmer Barly winked back. It amused him to have Mr. Frye beatenunfairly. Mr. Frye wanted to get his daughter away from him. "Well, "he said in his mind, to Mr. Frye, "just go easy. Just go easy, Mr. Frye. " And he winked again at Mr. Crabbe. "That's right, " he said, "give it to him. "

When Mr. Jeminy left Anna, at the edge of the village, he went to callon Grandmother Ploughman. He found her in the company of old Mrs. Crabbe, who had brought her knitting over, for society's sake. Mrs. Ploughman received him with quiet dignity, due to a sense of the wrongshe had suffered, for which she blamed Mrs. Wicket, and the DemocraticParty. Mr. Ploughman, she often said, had been a good Republican allhis life. Unfortunately, he was dead; otherwise, things would havebeen different. 

It seemed to her that the country was being run by a set of villains. "The world is in a bad way, " she declared. "I don't know what we'recoming to. " And an expression of bleak satisfaction illuminated herface, wrinkled with age. 

"Yes, " said Mr. Jeminy, "these are unhappy times. I am afraid we areleaving behind us a difficult task for those who follow. They had aright to expect better things of us, Mrs. Ploughman. "

"I've not left anything behind, " said Mrs. Ploughman decidedly; "notyet. "

"I should hope not, " ejaculated Mrs. Crabbe. "No. "

"It's the young, " said Mrs. Ploughman, "who get the old into trouble. Nothing ever suits them until they're in mischief; and then it's up totheir elders to pull them out again. I know, for I've seen it, fatherand son. "

"It is the old, " said Mr. Jeminy, "who get the young into trouble. "

"Is it, indeed?" said Mrs. Ploughman. 

"Well, I don't believe it. " And she gave Mr. Jeminy a bright, peakedlook. 

"Then, " she continued, "when you've done for them, year in and yearout, off they go, and that's the end of it. "

"Ah, yes, " croaked Mrs. Crabbe; "off they go. "

"If it isn't one thing, " said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's another. Troubleand death--that's a woman's lot in this world, like the Good Book says. "

"Death is the end of everything, " remarked Mrs. Crabbe. 

"I'm not afraid to die, " Mrs. Ploughman declared. "There's things todo the other side of the grave, same as here. And it's a joy to dothem, in the light of the Lord. I can tell you, Mrs. Crabbe, I won'tbe sorry to go. My folks are waiting there for me. " Her voicetrembled, and she rocked up and down to compose herself. "He needn'ttry to mix me up, " she thought to herself; "not in my own home. No. "

"Then, " said Mr. Jeminy, "you believe in an after life, Mrs. Ploughman?"

"Yes, " said Mrs. Ploughman firmly, directing her remarks to Mrs. Crabbe, "I do. I believe there's a life hereafter, when our sorrowswill be repaid us. There weren't all those hearts broke for nothing, Mrs. Crabbe, nor for what's going on here now, with strikes, andfamine, and bloody murders. "

"That's real edifying, Mrs. Ploughman, " said Mrs. Crabbe, "realedifying. Yes, " she exclaimed with energy, "these are terrible times. Now they give me tea without sugar in it. For there's no sugar to behad. Well, I won't drink it. I spit it out, when nobody's looking. "

And she plied her needles with vigor, to show what she thought of suchan arrangement. 

"As I was saying, " said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's the young who get the oldinto trouble. And artful folk, who'd ought to know better, with thelife they've had. I've had no peace in this life. But I'll have ithereafter. "

At this reflection upon Mrs. Wicket, Mr. Jeminy rose to go. "You areright, " he said; "no one will disturb you. " And he went home to Mrs. Grumble. 

"Where have you been all day?" she demanded. 

Mr. Jeminy smiled. He knew that Mrs. Grumble thought he had beenspending the afternoon at Mrs. Wicket's. "I have been to call on Mrs. Ploughman, " he said. "There I met old Mrs. Crabbe. "

Then Mrs. Grumble hurried out into the garden to pick a mess of youngbeans for supper, because Mr. Jeminy liked them better than squash. The bowl of squash she returned to the ice box. "I'll eat it myself, to-morrow, " she thought. 

"Supper will be a little late, " she said to Mr. Jeminy, "because thestove won't draw in wet weather. "

VI

HARVEST

Mr. Jeminy, clad in a pair of brown, earthy overalls, a blue, cottonshirt, and a straw hat, full of holes, was helping Mr. Tomkins digpotatoes, up on Barly Hill. From the field on the slopes above thevillage, he could see the hills across the valley, misted in the sun. Above him stretched the shining sky, thronged with its winds, the lowclouds of early autumn trailing their shadows across the woods. Allwas peace; he saw September's yellow fields, and felt, on his face, thecool fall wind, with its smoke of burning leaves, mingled with the odorof spaded earth, and fresh manure. 

With every toss of his fork he covered with earth the little piles ofstraw and ordure which Mr. Tomkins had spread on the ground. As headvanced in this manner, small flocks of sparrows rose before him, andflew away with dissatisfied cries. "Come, " he said to them, "the worlddoes not belong to you. I believe you have never read the works ofEpictetus, who says, 'true education lies in learning to distinguishwhat is ours, from what does not belong to us. ' However, you have amore modern spirit; for you believe that whatever you see belongs toyou, providing you are able to get hold of it. "

He was happy; in the warm, noon-day drowse, he felt, like Abraham, thegrace of God within him, and found even in the humblest sparrow enoughto afford him an opportunity to discuss morals with himself. 

"There'll be potatoes, " said Mr. Tomkins, "enough to last all winterfor the two of us. That's riches, Jeminy; where's your talk now of theworld being poor?"

"Some of these potatoes, " said Mr. Jeminy, bending over, "are rottedfrom the wet weather. "

"To-morrow, " said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll borrow a harrow from Farmer Barly. And next spring I'll plant corn here on the hill. Table corn, that is. Then we'll have a corn-husking, Jeminy; you and I, and the rest of theyoung ones. " And he burst out laughing, in his high, cracked voice. 

"Do you remember the last corn-husking?" asked Mr. Jeminy. "It was inthe autumn before the war. Anna Barly and Alec Stove lost themselvesin the woods. And Elsie Cobbler burned her fingers. How she cried andcarried on; Anna came running back, to see what it was all about. Butbefore the evening was over, she was off again, with Noel Ploughman. "

Mr. Tomkins nodded his head. Timid in the presence of Mr. Jeminy'sbooks, he was happy and hearty in his own potato patch. "I remember, "he said. "I remember more than you do, Jeminy. I can look back to thefirst husking bee I ever was at. That was in '62. A year later Ishouldered a gun, and went off with the drafts of '63. Your speakingof Noel put me in mind of it. 

"When I got home again, " he continued, "there was nothing for me to do. In those days folks did their own work. Then there was time foreverything. But the days are not as long as they used to be when I wasyoung. Now there's no time for anything. 

"But Noel was a good man. He was handy, and amiable. He could lay aroof, or mend a thresher, it was all the same to him. What do youthink, Jeminy? Anna Barly won't forget him in a hurry--heh?"

"No, " said Mr. Jeminy; "no, Anna won't forget him in a hurry. That isas it should be, William. She believes that she has suffered. And ifshe fools herself a little, I, for one, would be inclined to forgiveher. "

"She won't fool herself any, " said Mr. Tomkins; "not Anna. Wait andsee. "

The shadows of late afternoon stretched half across the field when Mr. Jeminy laid down his fork, and started to return home. As he followedMr. Tomkins down the hill, he saw the tops of the clouds lighted by thedescending sun, and heard, across the valley, the harsh notes of acow's horn, calling the hands on Ploughman's Farm in from the fields. 

He stopped a moment at a shadowy spring, hidden away among the ferns, for a cup of cold, clear water. Holding the cup, made of tin, to hislips, he observed:

"Thus, of old, the farmer stooped to refresh himself. When he wasdone, he gave thanks to the rustic god, who watched his house, andprotected his flocks. They were the best of friends; each was modestand reasonable. To-day God is like a dead ancestor; there is no way toargue with him. "

"I'm glad, " said Mr. Tomkins, "that the minister isn't here to listento you. Come along now; I've plenty still to do before supper. Thewidow Wicket's gate is down. But I've promised to set a fence forFarmer Barly first. "

"You need help, William, " remarked Mr. Jeminy thoughtfully; "you needhelp. I must see what I can do. " And he went home, down the hill, after Mr. Tomkins. 

The next day he started out early in the morning. When Mrs. Grumbleasked him where he was going, he replied, "I must step over to Mr. Tomkins, to help him with something. "

From Mr. Tomkins he borrowed a saw, a plane, a hammer, and a box ofnails. Then he hurried off to mend Mrs. Wicket's gate. On the way hestopped to gather an armful of goldenrod for his friend, and also topick a yellow aster for himself, from Mrs. Cobbler's garden. 

When he arrived at Mrs. Wicket's cottage, the widow's pale face andlistless manner, filled him with alarm. "I've been up with Juliet, "she said. "The child has a touch of croup. It's nothing. She'sbetter this morning. " And she gave him her hand, still cold with thechill of night. 

"Good heavens, " exclaimed Mr. Jeminy; "I am sure Mrs. Grumble wouldhave been glad to keep you company. "

Mrs. Wicket smiled. But she did not answer this declaration, which Mr. Jeminy knew in his heart to be untrue. 

Putting down his tools, he began to examine the gate. "Hm, " he said. "Hm. Yes, I'll soon have this fixed for you. " Mrs. Wicket stoodwatching him with a gentle smile. "You're very kind, " she said. "It'svery kind of you, Mr. Jeminy. Most folks are too proud to turn a handfor me, no matter what was to happen. "

"Tut, " said Mr. Jeminy. 

"Well, it's a fact, " said Mrs. Wicket gravely. "I've never feltloneliness like I do here. Not ever. Because I've had trouble, Mr. Jeminy, and known sorrow, folks leave me alone. I'd go away . . . Onlywhere would I go?"

"Sorrow, " said Mr. Jeminy, "is a good friend, Mrs. Wicket. Sorrow andpoverty are close to our hearts. They teach the spirit to be resoluteand indulgent. 

"One must also learn, " he added, "to bear sorrow without being vexed byit. "

"I've never had sorrow without being vexed by it, " said Mrs. Wicket. "To my way of thinking, sorrow comes so full of troubles, it's hard totell what's one, and what's the other. "

"Sorrow, " said Mr. Jeminy, "comes only to the humble and the wise. Itis the emotion of a gentle and courageous spirit. But wherever troubleis found, there is also to be found envy, pride, and vanity. It isgood to be humble, Mrs. Wicket; in humility lie the forces of peace. The humble heart is an impregnable fortress. "

And he tapped his breast, as though to say, "Here is a whole army. "

"Yes, " she mused, "yes . . . But the heart's liable to break, too, after a while. "

"Not the humble heart, " said Mr. Jeminy firmly. "No . . . You cannotbreak the humble heart. "

Mrs. Wicket stood gazing at the ground, twisting her apron with herhands. On her face was a look of pity for Mr. Jeminy, because she hadheard that he was not to teach school any longer. "It will be a hardblow to him, " she thought. 

"Few, " continued Mr. Jeminy, "go very long without their share ofsorrow. And sorrow is not a light thing to bear, Mrs. Wicket. Poverty, also, falls to the lot of most of us; and it is not easy to bepoor. Yet to be poor, to be sad, and to be brave, is indeed the bestof life. He who wants little for himself, is a happy man. If he iswise, he will pity those who have more than they need. He will notenvy them; he will see the trouble they are making for themselves. There is no end of pity in this world, Mrs. Wicket; like love, it makesrich men of us all. "

Mrs. Wicket nodded her head. "Yes, " she said, "it's a blessing to feelpity. It makes you strong, like. The humble heart is a power ofstrength. "

And she went back to Juliet, who had begun to cough again. Left tohimself, Mr. Jeminy regarded the gate-post with a thoughtful air. Butinwardly he was very much pleased with himself. 

That year they kept harvest home before September was fairly done. Inthe meadows the hay, gathered in stacks, shone in the moonlight likelittle hills of snow; and in the shadows the crickets hopped and sang, repeating with shrill voices, the murmurs of lovers, hidden in thewoods. 

Anna Barly and her friends watched the moon come up along the road toAdams' Forge. In Ezra Adams' haywagon they were singing the harvestin. Their voices rolled across the fields in lovely glees, rose in theold, familiar songs, broke into laughter, and died away in whispers. Thus they renewed their interrupted youth, and celebrated the return ofpeace. 

It was a cold, still night, with dew white as frost over the ground. Anna, huddled in the hay, could see her breath go out in fog; while themoon, shining in her face, seemed to veil in shadow the forms of hercompanions--Elsie Cobbler with her round, soft elbow over BrandonAdam's face, Susie Ploughman murmuring to Alec Stove . . . She waschilly and wakeful; and watching the moon through miles of empty sky, heard, as if from far away, the singing up front, back of the driver'sseat, and Thomas, whispering at her side. 

"What a grand night. Clear as a bell. "

"Yes, " said Anna, "It's lovely. "

She lay back against the posts of the haywagon, her young face liftedto the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoarse, familiar sounds, the shining, silent fields, and the pale, lofty sky, filled her with longing and regret. She closed her eyes; was it Noel, there, or Thomas? It was love, it was youth to be loved, to be held, to be hugged to her breast. 

"Listen . . . They're singing Love's Old Sweet Song. "

The song died out, leaving the night quiet as before, cold, silvery, urgent. She drew nearer to him; he breathed the simple fragrance ofher hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Thensilence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. Thefigures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as adream. Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna, over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen inthe shadows, and shadows unheard all around him. 

"I could go on like this till the end of time. "

"Could you?"

"I could ride like this forever and ever. "

Anna lay quiet, lulled by the cold and the gentle movement of thewagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"

"That's what I mean. "

His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "Iknow, " said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming inthe moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . What was the difference?"Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at mybreath; there's a regular fog of it. "

"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly abouther. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you. " Andat that moment, with all her heart, Anna wanted to belong to some one, wanted some one to belong to her . . . 

"Thanks, Tom--dear. "

The haywagon crossed the first rise, south of the village. Below theroad, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silverin the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, withBarly's lamp burning as bright for all the distance, as if it hung justover those trees, still, and faint with shadows. 

"See, " said Anna, "there's our light. "

But Thomas did not even lift his head to look. In the chilly, solemn, night air, he was warm and drowsy with his own silence, which being alltoo full of things to say was like to turn him into sugar with puresorrow. And Anna, her round lips parted with desire, waited for him tospeak, and held his hand tighter and tighter. 

"Starlight, " she murmured, "starbright, very first star I see to-night, wish I may, wish I might . . . "

"Sky's full of stars, " said Thomas. 

"Do you know what I wished?"

"Do I?"

"Don't you?"

He looked at her in silence; awkwardly, then, she drew him down, untilher lips brushed his cheek. 

"Look at Elsie, " she murmured. "Did you ever?"

But Thomas would not look at Elsie; not until Anna had told him herwish. "Wish I may, wish I might . . . "

"Have the wish . . . "

But she would only whisper it in his ear. 

Miles away, in Mrs. Wicket's cottage, Mr. Jeminy sat dreaming, androcking up and down. He had come to keep an eye on Juliet, so thatMrs. Wicket could sit with Mrs. Tomkins, who was feeling poorly. WhileJuliet, at his feet, played with her dolls, Mr. Jeminy gave himself upto reflection. He thought: "The little insects which run about mygarden paths at home, and eat what I had intended for myself, are notmore lonely than I am. For here, within the walls of my mind, there isonly myself. And you, Anna Barly, you cannot give poor Thomas Fryewhat he wishes. Do not deceive yourself; when you are gone, he will beas lonely as before. Come, confess, in your heart that pleases you;you would not have it otherwise. We are all lenders and borrowersuntil we die; it is only the dead who give. "

When Juliet was tired of playing, she put her dolls to bed, and settledherself in Mr. Jeminy's lap. There, while the lamplight danced acrossthe 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 whitebull . . . "

Then Mr. Jeminy rehearsed again the story of long, long ago, while thebright eyes closed, and the tired head drooped lower and lower; whilethe autumn moon rose up above the hills, and the haywagon rumbled alongthe 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 stolenaway before the wagon reached Milford. Now they were lying in a field, looking up at the stars, quieter than the crickets, which were singingall about them. 

VII

MRS. GRUMBLE GOES TO THE FAIR

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

"Mrs. Stove, " declared Miss Beal, leaning forward and looking up atMrs. 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 olddress will do; just let me fix it up a little. No, she says, she'llwear 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 forherself, "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 theydo, 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. Iwant 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 liketo 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, inand out, faster than ever, "would you, now? Well, then . . . There's afair 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, "Ifeel that young. "

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

"All the young folks will be there, " said Miss Beal. "I heard as howAlec Stove was going with Susie Ploughman. And there's ThomasFrye . . . And Anna Barly . . . "

"Yes, " said Mrs. Grumble. 

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

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

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

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

"Just think of that, " said Miss Beal. 

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

"And what belongs to us, Mrs. Grumble?" asked the dressmaker, liftingfrom 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 ofher 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 roundand serious eyes. "I don't rightly know, Mrs. Grumble, " she said, "butI came on her yesterday, and I declare if she hadn't been crying. Lastnight 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 asshouldn't be. Still, nothing would surprise me. "

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

"A touch of influenza, " answered Miss Beal, "so Sara Barly says. Lordsave 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'llhave some tea, " she said, "and I'll cook you some fritters. Jeminy isout. Then we'll go to the fair. "

"Glory, " said Miss Beal. 

After lunch the two women put on their bonnets and went to take theirseats in the Milford stage. As the wagon set out, creaking andcrowded, everyone began to talk; and so, with cheeks reddened by thewind, 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 deadgrass the bright colors of the fair shone in the sun; one could hearthe music and the voices almost a mile away. On the other side of thefield rose a gentle slope covered with goldenrod and white and purpleblooms in which the bees and wasps were still busy. There, above thecrowd of men and women, the happy insects were bringing to a closetheir own bazaar, begun amid the showers of early spring. Here was thebee, with his milch-cow, the ant with her souvenir, and the mildcricket, amused like Miss Beal by everything. Here, also, the wealthyspider, slung upon her twig, waited in patience for the homeless fly. And as, in comfort, she fed upon his juices, she exclaimed: "The rightto fasten my web to this twig is a serious matter. For without me thefly would be wasted, and would not obtain a proper burial. "

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

Below, in the meadow, our two friends went arm in arm about the fairgrounds; Miss Beal bought, as her first purchase, a spool of ribbon;and Mrs. Grumble had her fortune told. They rode on the carousel, allthe while thinking: "This is really too silly. " As Mrs. Grumbleclimbed down from her wooden horse, she said to herself: "I'm having asgood a time as that little girl with the pigtails, who is going aroundfor 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, againstthe farther woods, the autumn sky, swept by its bright winds. Allabout them men and women rejoiced in the sunshine, told each other itwas a fine day, and looked for some cause of dispute. 

"The races are going to begin, " said Mrs. Grumble, and taking herfriend by the arm, made her way toward the track, where she could seethe 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 bandplayed 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 inthe 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 withMr. Jeminy. "He's enjoying himself, " she said. "I don't know as howwe've any call to make remarks. "

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

Mrs. Grumble folded her hands, and assumed a forbidding expression. "Iexpect, " 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 rightin 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 oncetriumphant and consoling. "Never you mind, " she said; "trouble comesto all. "

Mr. Jeminy went home from the fair with a light heart. He startedearly, because he liked to walk; and he carried in his hand a bit oflace for Mrs. Grumble. As he went down the road, beneath the turningleaves, and through the shadows cast by the descending sun, he began tosing, 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: "Inautumn the birds go south by easy stages; to-day their songs aredeparted from these woods, where there is none left but the catbird, tocreak upon the bough. Soon snow will cover the earth, in which nothingis growing. But you, happy song birds, will build your nests far away, in green and windy trees, and your quarrels will fill distant valleyswith music. "

When Mr. Jeminy was nearly home he looked behind him and saw ThomasFrye and Anna Barly returning from the fair. He drew aside to let thempass, 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 ina month, " she declared. For Anna was going to have a baby. "Do whatyou 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 theday were longer, to enable her tongue to catch up to her fingers; forshe thought that she knew a thing or two, and could see what wasdirectly in front of her nose. "I'm nobody's fool, " she said, as sheguided the cloth, snapped the thread, and rocked the treadle of thesewing machine; and she sang to herself from morning to evening. Asthe only songs she knew were from the hymnal, she sang, with a heartoverflowing 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 herprayers, was wise and active, watching every sparrow. She wassatisfied that young folks were no better off than in her own day, butmight expect to find themselves, if they fell from grace, as wretchedas in the past. When Sara Barly had made the dress-maker comfortablein the spare room, she went down to the kitchen in search of Anna. ButAnna was in the barn with Tabitha, the cat, whose new-born kittensfilled 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 andyellow fields. When she had tied her apron on, she felt dull andtired; it seemed to her as if she were no longer virtuous, yet had notreceived anything in return for what she had given. And because shefelt 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 thealleluias of the dressmaker, singing as though she were in church. 

Farmer Barly was down in the south pasture, with the schoolmaster'sfriend, Mr. Tomkins; he wanted to put up a swinging gate between thesouth field and the road. But all at once he felt like saying: "Idon't want a gate at all; I want a fence to shut people out. " For whenhe 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. Iunderstand you put a silo in your barn. But I suppose you have yourown 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 forus all. Then we're liable to know better. "

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

"Why, then, " said Mr. Tomkins, "so they are; and so would I be, ascrotchety 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 worldwhere people robbed their neighbors, it were better not to possessanything. 

As he passed the potato patch, he heard Abner singing, without muchtune to his voice, a song he had learned in the army. "Ay, " mutteredMr. Barly, "go on--sing. You've learned that much, anyway. I may aswell sing, myself, for all the good I've ever had attending to mybusiness. I'll sing a good one; then I'll be right along witheverybody, and let come what may. "

Anna, too, heard Abner singing, as she knelt in front of the basketwhere the mother cat lay with her four blind kittens. "You see, Tabby, " she said, "people still sing. A lot of them learned to sing inthe 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 ofthings. 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, andstumbling back to the house, went upstairs to rest. But even to climbthe stairs made her catch her breath. Now, before breakfast of amorning, she was deathly sick; afterwards she was tired, and ready tocry over anything. Poor Anna; she was dumb with shame. "I'm worsethan Mrs. Wicket, " she said to herself, over and over again. "I'mworse 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 himas if the devil had reached up, and caught him by the leg. He was infor it. But like a fly in a web, he could not believe that it was notsome other fly. "Oh, God, " he prayed, "look down . . . Say somethingto me. "

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

"Yes, " he continued with energy, "what a shame, Mrs. Grumble. They didas they were bid. Now they know that love is a trap to catch theyoung, 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 todo. Youth was not made for the chimney corner, Mrs. Grumble. And loveis not all one piece. We make it so, because we are timid andindolent. We like to think that one rule fits everything; thateverything is simple and familiar. Even God, Mrs. Grumble, in youropinion, 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, whodid as she had a mind to. Well, well . . . "

"No matter, " said Mrs. Grumble comfortably, "there's the baby; youcan'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 nomore 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 thatbaby comes into this house, I go out of it. Why, who ever heard ofsuch 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 nothingleft for me to do in the world any more. I am sure you would bepleased with Anna's baby. Let us do this much for youth; for the newworld. "

"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 newworld . . . Sakes alive. "

"Mrs. Grumble, " said Mr. Jeminy, "the old world is dead and gone. Letthe 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 aworld of poverty. That would not do any harm, Mrs. Grumble. "

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

"Finer than what it is, " retorted Mr. Jeminy, losing his temper, "finerthan 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 outhe went in a rage. Mrs. Grumble, left alone, looked after him withflashing eyes and a heaving bosom. "Oh, " she breathed, "if I couldonly lay my hands on him. "

But when she did, at last, lay hands on him, it was not in the way shelooked for, as she sat rocking up and down, waiting for him to comehome 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 roadleading to his house. In one hand, crumpled in his pocket, he held hisdismissal from Hillsboro school: "On account of age, " it said. Nextmorning, at nine o'clock, the new teacher was coming to take over thelittle 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 roadafter him. The air was damp; he could see his breath pass out in fogbefore his face. The wind, blowing above his head, showered down thelast dried, yellow leaves upon his path; before him he saw the chillysky with its faint, lonely star, and over him the half moon, like aslice; and he heard the autumn wind, steady and cold. "You fields, " hesaid, "you trees, you meadows and little paths, I do not believe youwanted to dismiss me. You must have enjoyed the daisy chains my pupilsused to weave for you in the spring. Now they will learn the use offigures and percents, and the names of cities I have forgot. I willnever hear again the voices of children at the playhour come tumblingin through the school windows. For at my age one does not begin toteach 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, orgroaned like bass viols; and all along the roadside Mr. Jeminy couldsee the feeble glimmer of fireflies, fallen among the leaves. He saidto them, "Little creatures, my flame is also spent. But I do notintend, like you, to lie by the roadside in the wind, and keep myselfwarm 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 morethan 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 himbetween the branches, as he stepped from shadow into moonlight, andagain into shadow. Under the trees the dry, fallen leaves stirredabout his feet, and other leaves, which he could not see, fell near himin 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 somewheresouth of Milford, whose lighted lamp, pale yellow in the earlytwilight, drew him from the road, across the fields. As he turnedthrough the tumbled gate, a woman came to the door, her dress billowingback 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 earthwith patches of yellow and red. By the side of the road, piles ofleaves, raked together by Mr. Tomkins, were set on fire; they burnedwith a crackle and a roar, and gave off an odor at once pungent andregretful, which mingled in the fresh autumn air with the fragrance ofgrapes and cider, as the last apples of the season, too old and ripe tokeep, went to the press back of the barn. 

Juliet liked to play in Mrs. Tomkins' garden, where the hens, eachanxious to be not the first, but the second, ran after each other asthough 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 thoughtMrs. Grumble might have croup. But Mrs. Ploughman, who sat on theporch with Mrs. Tomkins, knew that Mrs. Grumble had pneumonia. "Got, "she explained, "by setting up that night, when Mr. Jeminy never camehome. "

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

"Mr. Jeminy, " said Mrs. Ploughman, "was a queer man, and no mistake. Iremember the day he stepped in to pay me a call. Mrs. Crabbe was withme. 'Mrs. Ploughman, ' he said, 'and you, Mrs. Crabbe, we're leaving alot of trouble behind us. ' Fancy that, Mrs. Tomkins--as though I'd upand go any minute. 'Mr. Jeminy, ' I said, 'I'm not afraid to die. Whenmy 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 wasmade to give up teaching school. It's a wonder the children knowanything at all, Mrs. Tomkins. I declare, it used to mix me upsomething terrible, just to listen to him. "

Mrs. Tomkins gazed at her sewing with thoughtful pleasure. "It was ahard blow to him, " she said. "He did his best. Maybe he was a littlequeer. 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 thetime 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 theinfluenza, and then the pneumony. Double pneumony, the doctor says. There's a lot of it around again, like last year. It takes the youngand the hardy. It won't get me. No. 

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

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

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 abody's dying, 'tisn't so much care you want, as salvation. I wouldn'twant any Jezebel hanging over my deathbed, Mrs. Tomkins, thank you. "

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

"You needn't quote Gospels to me, " declared Mrs. Ploughman; "I'm aseasy to forgive as the next one, where there's a reason for it. Idon'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 takeson in the fever. She does nothing but call him back, Mrs. Tomkins. 'Mr. Jeminy, ' she hollers, 'where's the old rascal?' she says. Thenshe goes on about his being in some trouble, and she has to get him outof 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 MissBeal, 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 faraway by this time. And there's no one could spare the time to go afterhim, even if a body knew where he was. Though I've an idea he wentsouth, 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 goafter 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 ofthis 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 withattention first to Mrs. Tomkins, and then to Mrs. Ploughman. 

"Let's play you're Mrs. Grumble, " she told Sara. And she covered thedoll with her handkerchief. Sara did not mind the square piece ofcambric, which Juliet often used to carry small handfuls of earth fromone 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 withwhich 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 shepresently returned with a few dead leaves and some mud. "Here, " shesaid; "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?" sheinquired. 

"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 tolook about for a twig, or a small branch, suitable for Jeminy. But allat once she grew thoughtful. It had occurred to her that to look forMr. Jeminy in the flesh would be a delightful adventure. It wouldplease 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. Foralthough 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 umbrellain case of rain, and the company of Sara would be sufficient. Then itwas only a question of walking in the direction of Milford, before shecame 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 fromthe closet. Then she went back to her own room and took down her pennybank. Holding it upside down, she began to shake it as hard as shecould. 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 wasnot the doll she would take along with her, after all. For Anna had abonnet, whereas Sara had none. Anna also wore a new dress, made forher 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 aface, Sara, " she added; "it won't get you anything. You can't go. Soyou may as well know it. Maybe if you're good, I'll bring yousomething back. "

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

For a while, as she walked, she told herself stories. She believedthat she was the princess of one of Mr. Jeminy's fairy tales; then Annabecame a duchess, or an old queen. The fact that nothing unusualhappened to her, did not seem to her of any importance; she saw therusset fields, the bare woods, the solemn clouds, and far off shine andshadow; and walked with serious pomp for her own delight, as long asshe 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 ofevening made itself felt in the air. Then for the first time doubt asto 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 shewas. The hush of evening, the silence of the fields, filled her headwith vague fears. She held her doll tightly to her breast for comfort. The little red squirrel, flirting along the low stone wall, seemed topeer at her as though to say; "This is where I live. But where do youlive? You can't live here; I won't have it. " Juliet began to shiverwith cold. 

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

But to start for home again in the gloom, took more courage than shehad 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 fromdown the road a sound of wheels, and the beat of hoofs. And presentlya farm wagon, drawn by an old white horse, approached her in thetwilight. 

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

"No, sir, " said Juliet. Now that she was found, she was in the best ofspirits, all sprightliness and wheedle. "I'm not lost. I'm lookingfor 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 awicked 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 stoppingwith 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 thefarmer, 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, yousee, " 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 heardher 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 windsdown to Adams' Forge, past Aaron Bade's stony fields. To the northlies Milford; but to the south lies that enchanting land, blue in thedistance, 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 offrises, its hazy, shadowy valleys, we feel within us a longing and afaint melancholy. There, we think, dwell the friends who would loveus, if we were known to them, and there, too, must be found the beautyand the happiness that we have failed to discover where we are. Itseems to us that there, in the distance, we should be happier, weshould 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 asAttleboro. He had been obliged to return home before he had found thehappiness which he had expected to find. However, once he was home, herealized that he had left it behind him, in Attleboro, or just a littlefurther south . . . 

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

He had no love for the farm, which had belonged to his father; an oldflute, 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; whenthe clear lights in the valley were set twinkling one by one, leavingthe uplands to the winds and stars, Aaron Bade, perched upon hispasture bars, piped to the faintly glowing sky his awkward thoughts andclumsy feelings. 

In the morning he took leave of his wife, and with his hoe slung overhis shoulder, made his way down to the cornfield. There, seated upon astone, he saw himself in Attleboro again, pictured to himself thecountryside beyond, and before noon, was half way round the world, leaving friends behind him in every land. Then, with a sigh, he wouldgo in among the corn with his weeder, only to stand dreaming at everyrustle 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 hopesfor herself. It seemed to her, when she chose Aaron Bade, that in hiscompany, life would be surprising and delightful. She expected to seesomething 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 thatthe more he talked, the more there remained for her to do. Thus herhopes died away; between the stove and the chickens, and what withcleaning, washing, sweeping and dusting, she rarely found time nowadaysfor more than a shake of her head, never very pretty, and at last nolonger young, at the thought of what she had looked for, what she hadmeant 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 thefields, she did his chores, as well as her own, with the wise remarkthat after all, they had to be done. 

Nevertheless, when the dishes were washed--when the shadows of eveningcrept in past the lamp, no longer able to exclude them, she began tofeel lonely and sad. And as the notes of Aaron's flute mingled withthe night sounds, the chirp of crickets, the hum of insects, she felt, rather than thought, "Life is so much spilt milk. And all that comesof 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 hisway, apparently, to the ends of the earth, and, after breakfast, fellasleep in the hayloft, leaving them both gaping with pleasure andcuriosity. 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 withsomething to sell always talk like the minister first. "

But Aaron, with his mind on the far off world across the smoky autumnhills, was pained at such a suggestion. "You're wrong, mother, " hesaid solemnly. "No, sirree. He's not from roundabout. And he's nocommon 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 manon 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 northcountry, crabbed and twisted as their own apple trees, she loved herhusband 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 knowanything, for all his looks. "

"His talk was elegant, " Mrs. Bade agreed. She stood still for amoment, 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 almostthink that she herself had seen all she wanted to see. 

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

Margaret, bent over her work again, plunged her red, wet arms up to theelbow in hot, soapy water. "You'll never lack talk, Aaron, " sheremarked; "or suffer for want of something to say. But it isn'twashing my pots for me, nor bringing in the corn . . . "

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

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

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

Mr. Jeminy awoke in the afternoon. It was the nature of this kind andsimple man to accept without question the hospitality of people he hadnever seen before; for he felt friendly toward every one. As he satdown to supper with the Bades, he bowed his head, and offered up agrace, 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, todiscover what the old man hoped to do. "I suppose, " he said, "you'vecome 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'sagreeable to you. "

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

"So you may, " said Aaron Bade. 

Mr. Jeminy looked at Margaret. "And you, madam?" he asked. "Would youcare 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 toAaron Bade. At the end of a week he felt that he had nothing toregret. He was active and spry, and believed himself to be useful. Infact, he could not remember when he had been so happy. High on hishill, he heard October's skyey gales go by above his head, and in thenoonday drowse, watched, from the shade of a tree, the crows fly outacross the valley, with creaking wings and harsh, discordant cries. Inthe early morning, he came tip-toeing down the stairs; from the opendoorway he marked day rise above the east in bands of yellow light, andsaw the foggy clouds of dawn slip quietly away, rising from thevalleys, drifting across the hills; in the afternoon he labored in thefields, and at night, his tired body filled his mind with comfortablethoughts. 

On his way to lunch, he stopped at the woodpile to get an armful ofkindling 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 hermerely to be waited on, a pleasure she was more than half afraid toenjoy, for fear at jealous heaven might take it away, and leave herwith all her work to do, and bad habits besides. 

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

For she saw in Mr. Jeminy all she had fancied as a girl, and lost hopein as a woman. Life . . . Life was, then, to be had--leastways, a viewof 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 herneatest, and was kinder than ever to Aaron, who was missing it. Forshe felt it was all just for her; she alone saw Mr. Jeminy for what hewas, a grand, unusual peephole on the world. It was her own privatepeep, she thought. But she was wrong. Aaron was peeping as hard asshe, and pitying her, as she was pitying him, for all he thought shewas missing. 

As for Mr. Jeminy, he let them think what they pleased. At first hewas 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 firesmingled with a sweeter smell from barns and kitchens. As it was thehour when school let out, the yard in front of the schoolhouse wasfilled with children on their way home; laughing and calling eachother, their voices rose in minor glees along the road, like thesquabble of birds. And Mr. Jeminy, in front of the smithy, watchedthem 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 samethoughts as anybody else. That is to say, they suppose it is God'sbusiness to look after them. Yes, they are like their parents: theyare carried away by what they are doing, which they do not believecould be done otherwise. One can see with what coldness, or evenblows, they receive the advances of other little children, who wish toplay with them. Well, as for those others, they go off at once, andplay 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 toanybody but himself. When he is older, he will be sorry he is not achild again. "

At this point, Elijah being shod and ready, he ceased his reflectionsand went call for Aaron at the post-office. As the rode home together, the old schoolmaster, sunk in reverie, remained silent. But Aaronwanted 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 ortwo. "

"As you like. "

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're very kind, " said Aaron, "but I don't figure to take advantageof it. Still, living's hard; so much trouble. Take me; here I ambound down to a farm's got as many rocks in it as anything else. I'vebeen 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 begrateful for, so far as I can see. "

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

"Go along, " said Aaron; "you're speaking out of kindness. But itdoesn'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 bendinglike an Indian pipe in the still air. And Mr. Jeminy gazed at it insilence, 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 arethe good things of life, Mr. Jeminy?"

"Love, " said Mr. Jeminy, "peace, quiet of the heart, the work of one'shands. Perhaps it is human to wish for more. But to be human is notalways to be wise. Do you desire to see the world, Aaron Bade? Soonyou 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 thecows 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 hadwanted to see, breathed the airs of foreign lands, and sailed the sevenseas, was setting Aaron's cows to right, in Aaron's tumbled barn. 

In the kitchen, Margaret, going to light the lamp, smiled at herthoughts, 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 stoodlooking up at the sky, yellow and green, with its promise of frost. "Acold night, " he said to himself, "and a bright morning. " He could hearthe wind rising in the west. "Winter is not far off, " he said, and hecarried the two warm, foaming milkpails into the kitchen. 

As he was eating his supper, a wagon came clattering down the road andstopped at the door. "There's Ellery Deakan back from Milford, " saidMargaret 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 thepudding to attend to. "

XII

MRS. WICKET

Mrs. Grumble was dying. She lay without moving, one wasted handholding tightly to the fingers of Mrs. Wicket, who sat beside the bed. There, where Mrs. Grumble had worked and scolded for twenty years, allwas 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 beingquiet in the village, where Mrs. Tomkins was going hurriedly from houseto house in search of Mrs. Wicket's runaway daughter. Mrs. Wicket, whowas dozing, did not hear the anxious voices calling everywhere forJuliet. To Mrs. Grumble, the sound was like the dwindling murmur of aworld with which she was nearly done. She felt that her end wasapproaching, 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 anytrouble 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; "forthat'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 todie. " She thought over, in silence, what she had just said, and itappeared to satisfy her. At the thought of death she was calm andwilling. "I remember, " she remarked, "how I used to have a horror ofdying. I was afraid to die, without having done anything to make meout different from anybody else. But I guess nobody's any differentwhen 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'dlike to know he was in good hands. I'd like to think you'd look afterhim 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. Itook 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 myown. "

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

"I remember the time he brought me a bit of lace from the fair over toMilford. He used to give me a lot of trouble. But he didn't forget tobring 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 cominghome. "

Mrs. Wicket, who had been up with Mrs. Grumble the night before, lether 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 thather pain was already over and done with. Framed in the doorway, in theyellow lamplight, she beheld the fancies of her youth, the memories ofthe past. She saw again the woman she had been, and watched, with eyesfilled with compassion, her early sorrows, and the troubles of herlater years. "It was all of no account, " she said to herself, "but itdoesn'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 alongthe road, with Juliet tight asleep in his arms. As he drew near hishome, he saw in the distance Barly Hill, and the lights of Barly Farmshining 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, " hesaid, "I am an old man. The world is not my affair any more. I belongto yesterday, with its triumphs and its failures; I must share in theglory, such as it is, of what has been done. The future is in thehands 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 thepain. 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 herbosom with delight and alarm. Mr. Jeminy gave Juliet to her mother. "Take the child home, " he said. Then with timid, hesitant steps, heapproached 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 toleave 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 thehill. And presently nothing was to be heard but the steady ticking ofthe clock on the mantel. Then Mr. Jeminy, for once, could find nothingto say. It seemed to him that instead of the clock's ticking, he heardthe footsteps of death in the house, on the stair . . . Tik, tok, tik, tok . . . And he sighed, with sadness and horror, "Ah, my friend, " hethought, "are you as frightened as I am?"

Presently he saw that Mrs. Grumble was trying to lift herself up inbed. "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. Mymind's at peace. I never knew death was so simple and ordinary. It'salmost like nothing. "

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

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

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

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

"You, God, " said Mr. Jeminy aloud, "this is your doing. Then come andbe present; receive the forgiveness of this good woman, to whom yougave, 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 shookher; for a moment she seemed anxious to speak. But as Mr. Jeminy bentover her, her breath failed; her head fell back, and with a single, frightened glance, Mrs. Grumble passed away, without saying what shehad 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 pressedahead, 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 notthink badly of me for that. 

"Now you are hurrying through eternity. To you, these few slow hoursbefore the dawn are no different from to-morrow or yesterday; they willnever pass. 

"Do you see, at last, the meaning of the spectacle you have justquitted? Do you understand what I, for all my wisdom, do notunderstand? 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 hewill tell you the meaning of it. But for us, who remain, it has nomeaning. Well, we say, this is life. We laugh, applaud, talktogether, and think about ourselves. And one by one we slip away, nowiser than before. 

"We are like the bees, who work from dawn till dark, gathering honey inthe fields and in the woods. But we are not as wise as the bees, foreach one grasps what he can, and cries, 'this is mine. ' Then seeingthat 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 inschool again. It was spring; and the children came romping into theschoolroom, their arms full of books and flowers. Summer passed; hesaw Anna Barly crying by the roadside, under the gray sky. He heardhimself saying to Mrs. Grumble: "Yes, that's right, stop up yourears . . . " And he saw himself walking toward Milford in themoonlight, under the falling leaves. "Who, now, " he thought, "willdrive me out of doors because my room is in disorder, or burn, when Iam away, the scraps of paper on which I have scribbled my memoranda?"

He bowed his head. "Rest quietly, Mrs. Grumble, " he said. "Yourtroubles are over. For you there is neither doubt nor grief; life doesnot matter to you any more. Nor does it matter very much to me. Forthere 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 itrattled down the road, woke, in his chair, the old schoolmaster fromthe reverie into which he had fallen. 

Faint and clear the early lights of the village went out, leaving thevalley empty and cold. A freight train whistled at the junction, andcrept, 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 figurehuddled in the chair. Slowly, and with difficulty, Mr. Jeminy got tohis 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.