gathering honey in
the fields and in the woods. But we are not as wise as the bees, for
each one grasps what he can, and cries, 'this is mine.' Then seeing
that it is of no use to him, he adds, 'What will you give me for it?'"

And he began to think of the past. It seemed to him that he was in
school again. It was spring; and the children came romping into the
schoolroom, their arms full of books and flowers. Summer passed; he
saw Anna Barly crying by the roadside, under the gray sky. He heard
himself saying to Mrs. Grumble: "Yes, that's right, stop up your
ears . . ." And he saw himself walking toward Milford in the
moonlight, under the falling leaves. "Who, now," he thought, "will
drive me out of doors because my room is in disorder, or burn, when I
am away, the scraps of paper on which I have scribbled my memoranda?"

He bowed his head. "Rest quietly, Mrs. Grumble," he said. "Your
troubles are over. For you there is neither doubt nor grief; life does
not matter to you any more. Nor does it matter very much to me. For
there is no one now to care what I do. I am no trouble to anybody."

The chilly breath of morning filled the valley with mist, fine, gray,
imperceptible in the faint light of dawn. And a farmer's cart, as it
rattled down the road, woke, in his chair, the old schoolmaster from
the reverie into which he had fallen.

Faint and clear the early lights of the village went out, leaving the
valley empty and cold. A freight train whistled at the junction, and
crept, with tolling bell, over the switches, to the south.

The sun, rising, poured its yellow light into Mrs. Grumble's room,
illuminating the bed, with its silent burden, and the still figure
huddled in the chair. Slowly, and with difficulty, Mr. Jeminy got to
his feet and crossed to the window. There his gaze encountered Mrs.
Wicket, coming up the hill.

Blowing on his hands, Mr. Jeminy went to meet her in the early sunshine.

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