When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den.  This little room, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above Barly Hill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, and several shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, a King James’ Bible, Arrian’s Epictetus, Sabatier’s life of Saint Francis, the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervas translation of Don Quixote.  Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in the evening he smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whose humor, gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by the negligence of his pupils.

On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr. Jeminy knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began to correct his pupils’ exercises.  He was still engaged at this task when Mr. Tomkins came to call.

“A fine evening,” said Mr. Tomkins from the doorway.

“Come in, William,” cried Mr. Jeminy, “come in.  A fine evening, indeed.  Well, this is very nice, I must say.”

Mr. Tomkins was older than Mr. Jeminy.  His once great frame was dried and bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lips were drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met.  But his eyes were bright and active.  Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy’s study, his large, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn, grasping his hat.

“Another year, Jeminy,” he said, in a voice shrill with age, “another year.  Time to shingle old man Crabbe’s roof again.  I’m spry yet.”  And resting a lean finger alongside his nose, he gave sound to a laugh like a peal of broken bells.

In his old age Mr. Tomkins was still agile; he crawled out on a roof, ripped up rotted shingles, and put down new ones in their place.  To see him climb to the top of a ladder, filled Mr. Jeminy with anxiety.

“You’ll die,” he said, “with a hammer in your hand.”

“Then,” said Mr. Tomkins, “I’ll die as I’ve lived.”

“That’s strange enough,” said Mr. Jeminy, “when you come to think of it.  For men are born into this world hungry and crying.  But they die in silence and slip away without touching anything.”

Mr. Tomkins cleared his throat, and watched his fingers run around his hat’s brim.  He wanted to tell Mr. Jeminy some news; but it occurred to him that it was no more than a rumor.  Finally he said:  “There’s a new school-ma’am over to North Adams.”  He cocked his head sidewise to look at the schoolmaster.  “She knows more than you, Jeminy,” he said.

Mr. Jeminy sat bowed and still, his hands folded in his lap.  He remembered how he had come to Hillsboro thirty years before, a young man full of plans and fancies.  He was soon to learn that what had been good enough for Great Grandfather Ploughman, was thought to be good enough for his grandson, also.  Mr. Jeminy remained in Hillsboro, at first out of hope, later out of habit.  At last it seemed to him as if Hillsboro were his home.  “Where else should I go?” he had asked himself.  “Here is all I have in the world.  Here are my only friends.  Well, after all,” he said to himself more than once, “I am not wasted here, exactly.”  And he tried to comfort himself with this reflection.