From Mr. Tomkins he borrowed a saw, a plane, a hammer, and a box of nails.  Then he hurried off to mend Mrs. Wicket’s gate.  On the way he stopped to gather an armful of goldenrod for his friend, and also to pick a yellow aster for himself, from Mrs. Cobbler’s garden.

When he arrived at Mrs. Wicket’s cottage, the widow’s pale face and listless manner, filled him with alarm.  “I’ve been up with Juliet,” she said.  “The child has a touch of croup.  It’s nothing.  She’s better this morning.”  And she gave him her hand, still cold with the chill of night.

“Good heavens,” exclaimed Mr. Jeminy; “I am sure Mrs. Grumble would have been glad to keep you company.”

Mrs. Wicket smiled.  But she did not answer this declaration, which Mr. Jeminy knew in his heart to be untrue.

Putting down his tools, he began to examine the gate.  “Hm,” he said.  “Hm.  Yes, I’ll soon have this fixed for you.”  Mrs. Wicket stood watching him with a gentle smile.  “You’re very kind,” she said.  “It’s very kind of you, Mr. Jeminy.  Most folks are too proud to turn a hand for me, no matter what was to happen.”

“Tut,” said Mr. Jeminy.

“Well, it’s a fact,” said Mrs. Wicket gravely.  “I’ve never felt loneliness like I do here.  Not ever.  Because I’ve had trouble, Mr. Jeminy, and known sorrow, folks leave me alone.  I’d go away . . . only where would I go?”

“Sorrow,” said Mr. Jeminy, “is a good friend, Mrs. Wicket.  Sorrow and poverty are close to our hearts.  They teach the spirit to be resolute and indulgent.

“One must also learn,” he added, “to bear sorrow without being vexed by it.”

“I’ve never had sorrow without being vexed by it,” said Mrs. Wicket.  “To my way of thinking, sorrow comes so full of troubles, it’s hard to tell what’s one, and what’s the other.”

“Sorrow,” said Mr. Jeminy, “comes only to the humble and the wise.  It is the emotion of a gentle and courageous spirit.  But wherever trouble is found, there is also to be found envy, pride, and vanity.  It is good to be humble, Mrs. Wicket; in humility lie the forces of peace.  The humble heart is an impregnable fortress.”

And he tapped his breast, as though to say, “Here is a whole army.”

“Yes,” she mused, “yes . . . but the heart’s liable to break, too, after a while.”

“Not the humble heart,” said Mr. Jeminy firmly.  “No . . . you cannot break the humble heart.”

Mrs. Wicket stood gazing at the ground, twisting her apron with her hands.  On her face was a look of pity for Mr. Jeminy, because she had heard that he was not to teach school any longer.  “It will be a hard blow to him,” she thought.

“Few,” continued Mr. Jeminy, “go very long without their share of sorrow.  And sorrow is not a light thing to bear, Mrs. Wicket.  Poverty, also, falls to the lot of most of us; and it is not easy to be poor.  Yet to be poor, to be sad, and to be brave, is indeed the best of life.  He who wants little for himself, is a happy man.  If he is wise, he will pity those who have more than they need.  He will not envy them; he will see the trouble they are making for themselves.  There is no end of pity in this world, Mrs. Wicket; like love, it makes rich men of us all.”