“If it wasn’t for Mrs. Wicket,” said Mrs. Tomkins, “I expect she’d have been dead before this.  Mrs. Wicket’s a capable woman in things like that.  Capabler than Miss Beal.  There was no one else ever made me so comfortable.  I have to say that about her; Mrs. Grumble’s getting the best of care.  And I’m looking after Juliet.  Not that she’s any trouble; she’s as quiet as a mouse, playing all day long with her dolls.”

But Mrs. Ploughman could not find it in her heart to forgive Mrs. Wicket for having been the cause of her grandson Noel’s death.  “Yes,” she said, “I expect Mrs. Grumble’s getting good care.  But when a body’s dying, ’tisn’t so much care you want, as salvation.  I wouldn’t want any Jezebel hanging over my deathbed, Mrs. Tomkins, thank you.”

Mrs. Tomkins, who attended each Sunday the little Baptist church at Adams’ Forge, did not believe that she and Mrs. Ploughman would meet in heaven.  However, she did not choose this moment to mention it.  “It may be as you say, Mrs. Ploughman,” she remarked, “or it may be that we’ve been too hard oh Mrs. Wicket.  Mind you, I don’t speak for her life with that bad egg of Eben Wicket’s.  But we ought to forgive others as we would have others forgive us.”

“You needn’t quote Gospels to me,” declared Mrs. Ploughman; “I’m as easy to forgive as the next one, where there’s a reason for it.  I don’t hold it against Mrs. Wicket that she drove my Noel to his death.  No.  I forgive her for it.  And I don’t blame Mr. Jeminy for going off, if he had a mind to, and leaving Mrs. Grumble to catch the pneumony.”

“No,” said Mrs. Tomkins.

“But there’s this much queer,” said Mrs. Ploughman:  “The way she takes on in the fever.  She does nothing but call him back, Mrs. Tomkins.  ‘Mr. Jeminy,’ she hollers, ‘where’s the old rascal?’ she says.  Then she goes on about his being in some trouble, and she has to get him out of it.  ‘He’s in the toils,’ she says; ‘he’s with the scarlet woman.’”

“My life!” exclaimed Mrs. Tomkins.

“I declare,” said Mrs. Ploughman, “I wouldn’t be Mrs. Wicket, or Miss Beal, not for a thousand dollars.”

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.