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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No," said Mrs. Tomkins.

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

"My life!" exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins.

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

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

"The ole vagabone," exclaimed Mrs. Ploughman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In the stummick," squeaked Sara.

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

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

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

"No," said Sara.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, please come back."

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

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

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

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

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

"Does he live hereabouts?" asked the farmer.

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

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

"Mr. Jeminy," said Juliet.

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

"Yes, sir," said Juliet.

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

"Mister," she said.

"Yes, ma'am?"

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

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

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

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

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