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.