of land belonging to Ezra Adams, where, last spring, Mrs. Wicket
planted her rows of corn, is left to grow its mouthful of hay, to sell
to Mr. Frye."

"Ah," said Mr. Tomkins wisely, "that's it. Well, Mrs. Wicket, now.
Still," he added, "he'll have a lot of nettles in that hay."

"The rich," Mr. Jeminy continued, "quarrel with the poor, and the poor,
by way of answer, with rich and poor alike. And rich or poor, every
man reaches for more, like a child at table. That is why, William,
there is poverty to-day; poverty of the heart, of the mind, and of the
spirit.

"And yet," he added stoutly a moment later, "I'll not deny there is
plenty of light; yes, we are wise enough, there is love in our
hearts . . . Perhaps, William, heaven will be found when old men like
you and me, who have lost our way, are dead."

"Lost our way?" quavered Mr. Tomkins, "lost our way? What are you
talking about, Jeminy?"

But the fire, burning so brightly before, was almost out. "Youth,"
said Mr. Jeminy sadly . . . And he sat quite still, staring straight
ahead of him.

"Well," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll be stepping on home." Clapping his hat
somewhat uncertainly onto his head, he rose to go. Mr. Jeminy
accompanied him to the door.

"Good-night," he said.