of frying bacon from the kitchen, warmed his nose. So he was not surprised to see Mrs. Grumble appear in the doorway soon afterward. "Your supper is ready," she said; "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 bent his head, and said: "Let us give thanks to God for this manifestation of His bounty."

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

Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And, indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the neighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables, fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while she washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of her soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good man, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents were wasted. "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 his conversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, or Plotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about nothing 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. For riches are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out of the heart. A man is only to be envied who desires little."

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

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

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

As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, he thought: "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 his hand, thinking of that wealthy iron-master, whose epitaph is said to read: Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better men than himself.

When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den. This little room, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above Barly Hill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, and several shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, a King James' Bible, Arrian's Epictetus, Sabatier's life of Saint Francis, the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervas translation of Don Quixote. Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in the evening he smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whose humor, gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by the negligence of his pupils.

On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr. Jeminy knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began to correct his pupils' exercises. He was still engaged at this task when Mr. 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 dried and bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lips were drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met. But his eyes were bright and active. Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy's study, his large, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn, grasping his hat.

"Another year, Jeminy," he said, in a voice shrill with age, "another year. 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 laugh like 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. To see 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 of it. For men are born into this world hungry and crying. But they die in silence and slip away without touching anything."

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

Mr. Jeminy sat bowed and still, his hands folded in his lap. He remembered how he had come to Hillsboro thirty years before, a young man full of plans and fancies. He was soon to learn that what had been good enough for Great Grandfather Ploughman, was thought to be good enough for his grandson, also. Mr. Jeminy remained in Hillsboro, at first out of hope, later out of habit. At last it seemed to him as if Hillsboro were his home. "Where else should I go?" he had asked himself. "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 wasted here, exactly." And he tried to comfort himself with this reflection.

He had started out to build a new school in the wilderness. "I shall teach my pupils something more than plus and minus," he declared. He remembered 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 he hoped 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 were taken out of classes early, and added, like another pig, to the farms. Girls, when they were old enough, were kept at home to help their mothers; after a while they, too, married; then their education was over. In the winter they nailed the windows shut; in the summer they worked 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, not one was either better or happier than in childhood.

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

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

"There