e troubles of her
later years. "It was all of no account," she said to herself, "but it
doesn't matter now." And she set herself to wait in patience for Mr.
Jeminy, who she never doubted would come to help her die.

Meanwhile the schoolmaster, in Aaron Bade's wagon, was rattling along
the road, with Juliet tight asleep in his arms. As he drew near his
home, he saw in the distance Barly Hill, and the lights of Barly Farm
shining across the valley. "I am coming home again," he said to them;
"I have no longer any pride. So now I know that I am an old man."

But later a feeling of peace took possession of his heart. "Yes," he
said, "I am an old man. The world is not my affair any more. I belong
to yesterday, with its triumphs and its failures; I must share in the
glory, such as it is, of what has been done. The future is in the
hands of this child, sound asleep by my side. It is in your hands,
Anna Barly, and yours, Thomas Frye. But you must do better than I did,
and those with whom I quarreled. To youth is given the burden and the
pain. Only the old are happy to-day.

"Children, children, what will become of you?"

When Mr. Jeminy, with Juliet in his arms, strode in through Mrs.
Grumble's door, Mrs. Wicket rose to her feet, her hands pressed to her
bosom with delight and alarm. Mr. Jeminy gave Juliet to her mother.
"Take the child home," he said. Then with timid, hesitant steps, he
approached Mrs. Grumble's bed.

"You've been a long time coming," she said. "I'm tired."

"I'm here now," replied Mr. Jeminy; "I am not going away any more."

"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "you'd better stay home and attend to things.
I won't be here much longer."

Mr. Jeminy wanted to say "nonsense," but he was unable to speak.
Instead he took Mrs. Grumble's hand in both of his. "Are you going to
leave me, dear friend?" he asked.

Mrs. Grumble smiled; then she gave a sigh. "Look what you called me,"
she said. And they were both silent, thinking of the past together.
In the distance the crisp footsteps of Mrs. Wicket died away down the
hill. And presently nothing was to be heard but the steady ticking of
the clock on the mantel. Then Mr. Jeminy, for once, could find nothing
to say. It seemed to him that instead of the clock's ticking, he heard
the footsteps of death in the house, on the stair . . . tik, tok, tik,
tok . . . And he sighed, with sadness and horror, "Ah, my friend," he
thought, "are you as frightened as I