got.

"She is simple and kind," he said to Mrs. Grumble. "She has had very
little to give thanks for."

"She'll have more, then, if she can," replied Mrs. Grumble with a toss
of her head as though to say, "it's you who are simple."

And she looked the other way, when they met on the road. Mr. Jeminy,
on the other hand, often went to call at the little house at the edge
of the village. The young widow, who had no other callers, felt that
one friend was enough when he talked as much as Mr. Jeminy. While he
laid open before her the great books of the past, illuminating their
pages with his knowledge and reflections, she listened with an air of
tranquil pleasure. She counted the stitches on her sewing, and
answered "sakes alive," in the pauses.

One day in April she put on her best dress, and took the stage to
Milford. When she came home again, in the evening, she brought with
her a decorated shell for her friend. But it happened that Thomas Frye
also came home from Milford, by the same stage. That was what Mrs.
Grumble was waiting for. "Now she's at it again," said Mrs. Grumble.
"She's bound to have some one," she declared; "one or another, it's all
the same." And she gazed meaningly at Mr. Jeminy, who started at once
for his den, as though he were looking for something.

Then she was delighted with herself, and retired to the kitchen.

It was useless for Mr. Jeminy to retreat to his den. For sooner or
later, Mrs. Grumble always found something to do there. She would come
in with her broom and her mop, and look around. Then Mr. Jeminy would
walk hastily out of the house and descend to the village. There, it
would occur to him to call on Mrs. Wicket, because he happened to have
with him a book he thought she would like to look at, or a flower for
Juliet. Mrs. Wicket received each book with gratitude, and looked to
see if there were any pictures in it, before giving it back again.
Juliet, on the other hand, wished to know the names of all the flowers.
When Mr. Jeminy repeated their names in Latin, from the text-book on
botany, she clapped her hands, and jumped up and down, because it was
so comical.

Now, in August, Mr. Jeminy was building her a doll's house in Mrs.
Wicket's tumbledown barn. It was the sort of work he liked to engage
in; no one expected him to be accurate, it was only necessary to use
his imagination. But Juliet, swinging her legs on top of the feed bin,
regarded him with round and