"No," said Mr. Jeminy.

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

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

"So you may," said Aaron Bade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for Mr. Jeminy, he let them think what they pleased. At first he was silent, out of shame. But later he enjoyed it as much as they did.

"In Ceylon," he would say, "the tea fields . . ."

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

"There," he said to himself, "its arms of texts, goes the new world.

Within those careless heads and happy hearts we must look for courage, for wisdom and for sacrifice. Yet I believe they have the same thoughts as anybody else. That is to say, they suppose it is G.o.d's business to look after them. Yes, they are like their parents: they are carried away by what they are doing, which they do not believe could be done otherwise. One can see with what coldness, or even blows, they receive the advances of other little children, who wish to play with them. Well, as for those others, they go off at once, and play by themselves. One of them, whose hat has been taken by the rest, is digging in the earth with a bent twig, sharpened at one end.

Possibly he is digging for a treasure, which will be of no value to anybody but himself. When he is older, he will be sorry he is not a child again."

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

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

"As you like."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Go along," said Aaron; "you're speaking out of kindness. But it doesn't fool me any. I know you've led a wandering life, Mr. Jeminy.

But I'd admire to see a little something of the world myself."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As he was eating his supper, a wagon came clattering down the road and stopped at the door. "There's Ellery Deakan back from Milford," said Margaret at the window. "I wonder what he wants at this time of night.

Looks to be somebody with him. Go and see, Mr. Jeminy. I've the pudding to attend to."

XII

MRS. WICKET

Mrs. Grumble was dying. She lay without moving, one wasted hand holding tightly to the fingers of Mrs. Wicket, who sat beside the bed.

There, where Mrs. Grumble had worked and scolded for twenty years, all was still; while the clock on the dresser, like a solemn footstep, seemed to deepen the silence with its single, hollow beat.

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "no, I'm not going to get well. I'm going to die." She thought over, in silence, what she had just said, and it appeared to satisfy her. At the thought of death she was calm and willing. "I remember," she remarked, "how I used to have a horror of dying. I was afraid to die, without having done anything to make me out different from anybody else. But I guess n.o.body's any different when it comes to dying, Mrs. Wicket. It feels easy and natural."

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