on-master, whose epitaph is said to
read: Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better men
than himself.

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