“Do you remember the last corn-husking?” asked Mr. Jeminy.  “It was in the autumn before the war.  Anna Barly and Alec Stove lost themselves in the woods.  And Elsie Cobbler burned her fingers.  How she cried and carried on; Anna came running back, to see what it was all about.  But before the evening was over, she was off again, with Noel Ploughman.”

Mr. Tomkins nodded his head.  Timid in the presence of Mr. Jeminy’s books, he was happy and hearty in his own potato patch.  “I remember,” he said.  “I remember more than you do, Jeminy.  I can look back to the first husking bee I ever was at.  That was in ’62.  A year later I shouldered a gun, and went off with the drafts of ’63.  Your speaking of Noel put me in mind of it.

“When I got home again,” he continued, “there was nothing for me to do.  In those days folks did their own work.  Then there was time for everything.  But the days are not as long as they used to be when I was young.  Now there’s no time for anything.

“But Noel was a good man.  He was handy, and amiable.  He could lay a roof, or mend a thresher, it was all the same to him.  What do you think, Jeminy?  Anna Barly won’t forget him in a hurry—­heh?”

“No,” said Mr. Jeminy; “no, Anna won’t forget him in a hurry.  That is as it should be, William.  She believes that she has suffered.  And if she fools herself a little, I, for one, would be inclined to forgive her.”

“She won’t fool herself any,” said Mr. Tomkins; “not Anna.  Wait and see.”

The shadows of late afternoon stretched half across the field when Mr. Jeminy laid down his fork, and started to return home.  As he followed Mr. Tomkins down the hill, he saw the tops of the clouds lighted by the descending sun, and heard, across the valley, the harsh notes of a cow’s horn, calling the hands on Ploughman’s Farm in from the fields.

He stopped a moment at a shadowy spring, hidden away among the ferns, for a cup of cold, clear water.  Holding the cup, made of tin, to his lips, he observed: 

“Thus, of old, the farmer stooped to refresh himself.  When he was done, he gave thanks to the rustic god, who watched his house, and protected his flocks.  They were the best of friends; each was modest and reasonable.  To-day God is like a dead ancestor; there is no way to argue with him.”

“I’m glad,” said Mr. Tomkins, “that the minister isn’t here to listen to you.  Come along now; I’ve plenty still to do before supper.  The widow Wicket’s gate is down.  But I’ve promised to set a fence for Farmer Barly first.”

“You need help, William,” remarked Mr. Jeminy thoughtfully; “you need help.  I must see what I can do.”  And he went home, down the hill, after Mr. Tomkins.

The next day he started out early in the morning.  When Mrs. Grumble asked him where he was going, he replied, “I must step over to Mr. Tomkins, to help him with something.”