Meanwhile the schoolmaster, in Aaron Bade’s wagon, was rattling along the road, with Juliet tight asleep in his arms.  As he drew near his home, he saw in the distance Barly Hill, and the lights of Barly Farm shining across the valley.  “I am coming home again,” he said to them; “I have no longer any pride.  So now I know that I am an old man.”

But later a feeling of peace took possession of his heart.  “Yes,” he said, “I am an old man.  The world is not my affair any more.  I belong to yesterday, with its triumphs and its failures; I must share in the glory, such as it is, of what has been done.  The future is in the hands of this child, sound asleep by my side.  It is in your hands, Anna Barly, and yours, Thomas Frye.  But you must do better than I did, and those with whom I quarreled.  To youth is given the burden and the pain.  Only the old are happy to-day.

“Children, children, what will become of you?”

When Mr. Jeminy, with Juliet in his arms, strode in through Mrs. Grumble’s door, Mrs. Wicket rose to her feet, her hands pressed to her bosom with delight and alarm.  Mr. Jeminy gave Juliet to her mother.  “Take the child home,” he said.  Then with timid, hesitant steps, he approached Mrs. Grumble’s bed.

“You’ve been a long time coming,” she said.  “I’m tired.”

“I’m here now,” replied Mr. Jeminy; “I am not going away any more.”

“No,” said Mrs. Grumble, “you’d better stay home and attend to things.  I won’t be here much longer.”

Mr. Jeminy wanted to say “nonsense,” but he was unable to speak.  Instead he took Mrs. Grumble’s hand in both of his.  “Are you going to leave me, dear friend?” he asked.

Mrs. Grumble smiled; then she gave a sigh.  “Look what you called me,” she said.  And they were both silent, thinking of the past together.  In the distance the crisp footsteps of Mrs. Wicket died away down the hill.  And presently nothing was to be heard but the steady ticking of the clock on the mantel.  Then Mr. Jeminy, for once, could find nothing to say.  It seemed to him that instead of the clock’s ticking, he heard the footsteps of death in the house, on the stair . . . tik, tok, tik, tok . . .  And he sighed, with sadness and horror, “Ah, my friend,” he thought, “are you as frightened as I am?”

Presently he saw that Mrs. Grumble was trying to lift herself up in bed.  “I’m going now,” she said.  Her voice was low, but resonant.  “Mrs. Wicket will look after you.  She’s a good woman, Mr. Jeminy.  My mind’s at peace.  I never knew death was so simple and ordinary.  It’s almost like nothing.”

She sank back; her voice gave out and she began to cough.  “You will only tire yourself by talking,” said Mr. Jeminy.  “Rest now.  Then in the morning . . .”

“No,” said Mrs. Grumble faintly, “there’ll be no morning for me, unless it’s the morning of the Lord.  Not where I’m going.”

“You are going where I, too, must go,” said Mr. Jeminy.  “You are going a little before me.  Soon I shall come hurrying after you.”