"Sorrow," said Mr. Jeminy, "comes only to the humble and the wise. It is the emotion of a gentle and courageous spirit. But wherever trouble is found, there is also to be found envy, pride, and vanity. It is good 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 cannot break the humble heart."

Mrs. Wicket stood gazing at the ground, twisting her ap.r.o.n with her hands. On her face was a look of pity for Mr. Jeminy, because she had heard that he was not to teach school any longer. "It will be a hard blow to him," she thought.

"Few," continued Mr. Jeminy, "go very long without their share of sorrow. 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 be poor. Yet to be poor, to be sad, and to be brave, is indeed the best of life. He who wants little for himself, is a happy man. If he is wise, he will pity those who have more than they need. He will not envy 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 makes rich men of us all."

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

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

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

Anna Barly and her friends watched the moon come up along the road to Adams' Forge. In Ezra Adams' haywagon they were singing the harvest in. Their voices rolled across the fields in lovely glees, rose in the old, familiar songs, broke into laughter, and died away in whispers.

Thus they renewed their interrupted youth, and celebrated the return of peace.

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 the moon, shining in her face, seemed to veil in shadow the forms of her companions--Elsie Cobbler with her round, soft elbow over Brandon Adam's face, Susie Ploughman murmuring to Alec Stove . . . She was chilly 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's seat, 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 lifted to the sky. Her heart was full; the beauty of the night, the hoa.r.s.e, 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 of her hair, and felt the faint warmth of her body, close to his. Then silence seized upon Thomas Frye; he grew sad without knowing why. The figures at his side, curled in the hay, seemed to him ghostly as a dream. Poor Thomas; he was addled with moonlight; moonlight over Anna, over him, moonlight over the hills, over the road, and voices unseen in the 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 the wagon, now fast, now slow. "Together?" she asked. "Like this?"

"That's what I mean."

His hand touched hers; their fingers twined about each other. "I know," said Anna. She, too, could have gone on forever, dreaming in the moonlight. Noel . . . Thomas . . . what was the difference?

"Don't talk. Look at the trees, up against the moon. Look at my breath; there's a regular fog of it."

"Are you cold?" He bent to wrap the heavy blanket more snugly about her. He wanted to say: "You belong to me, and I belong to you." And at 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 the road, a rocky field swept downward to the woods, pale green and silver in the moonlight; and beyond, far off and faint, rose Barly Hill, with Barly's lamp burning as bright for all the distance, as if it hung just over 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 all too full of things to say was like to turn him into sugar with pure sorrow. And Anna, her round lips parted with desire, waited for him to speak, 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, until her 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 her wish. "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, and rocking up and down. He had come to keep an eye on Juliet, so that Mrs. Wicket could sit with Mrs. Tomkins, who was feeling poorly. While Juliet, at his feet, played with her dolls, Mr. Jeminy gave himself up to reflection. He thought: "The little insects which run about my garden paths at home, and eat what I had intended for myself, are not more lonely than I am. For here, within the walls of my mind, there is only myself. And you, Anna Barly, you cannot give poor Thomas Frye what he wishes. Do not deceive yourself; when you are gone, he will be as lonely as before. Come, confess, in your heart that pleases you; you would not have it otherwise. We are all lenders and borrowers until we die; it is only the dead who give."

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

Tell me about the big, white bull, who swam over the sea."

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

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

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

VII

MRS. GRUMBLE GOES TO THE FAIR

September's round moon waned; Indian summer was over. One morning in October Miss Beal, the dressmaker, had taken her sewing to Mr.

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