or this manifestation
of His bounty."

During the meal Mrs. Grumble was silent. But Mr. Jeminy could see that
she had something important to say. At last she remarked, "As I was on
my way to the village, I met Mrs. Barly. She said, 'You'll have to buy
your own milk after this, Mrs. Grumble.' I just stood and looked at
her."

Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And,
indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the
neighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables,
fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while
she washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of
her soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good
man, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents were
wasted. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy," she told Miss Beal,
the dress-maker, "because he talks so much."

It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But his
conversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, or
Plotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about
nothing but the dead," she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen."

"No," said Miss Beal. "How aggravating."

Now, Mr. Jeminy, unheeding the sighs of his housekeeper, continued:
"But after all, I would not change places with Farmer Barly. For
riches are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out of
the heart. A man is only to be envied who desires little."

"It is always the same," said Mrs. Grumble; "the rich have their
pleasures, and the poor people their sorrows."

"That," said Mr. Jeminy, "is the mistake of ignorance. For Epictetus
was a slave, and Saint Peter was a fisherman. They were poor; but they
did not consider themselves unfortunate. More to be pitied than either
Saint Peter or Epictetus, was Croesus, King of Lydia, who was probably
not as rich as Mr. Gary. But he knew how to use his wealth. Therefore
he was all the more disappointed when it was taken away from him by
Cyrus, the Persian. No, Mrs. Grumble, what you can lose is no great
good to any one.

"If you wish," he added, "I will dry the dishes, and you can spend the
evening in the village."

As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, he
thought: "When I die, I should like it said of me: By his own efforts,
he remained a poor man." And he stood still, the dishtowel in his
hand, thinking of that wealthy ir