ret 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 nobody'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.

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'd
like to know he was in good hands. I'd like to think you'd look after
him 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. I
took 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 my
own."

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

"I remember the time he brought me a bit of lace from the fair over to
Milford. He used to give me a lot of trouble. But he didn't forget to
bring 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 coming
home."

Mrs. Wicket, who had been up with Mrs. Grumble the night before, let
her 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 that
her pain was already over and done with. Framed in the doorway, in the
yellow lamplight, she beheld the fancies of her youth, the memories of
the past. She saw again the woman she had been, and watched, with eyes
filled with compassion, her early sorrows, and th