hill. Table corn, that is.
Then we'll have a corn-husking, Jeminy; you and I, and the rest of the
young ones." And he burst out laughing, in his high, cracked voice.

"Do you remember the last corn-husking?" asked Mr. Jeminy. "It was in
the autumn before the war. Anna Barly and Alec Stove lost themselves
in the woods. And Elsie Cobbler burned her fingers. How she cried and
carried on; Anna came running back, to see what it was all about. But
before the evening was over, she was off again, with Noel Ploughman."

Mr. Tomkins nodded his head. Timid in the presence of Mr. Jeminy's
books, he was happy and hearty in his own potato patch. "I remember,"
he said. "I remember more than you do, Jeminy. I can look back to the
first husking bee I ever was at. That was in '62. A year later I
shouldered a gun, and went off with the drafts of '63. Your speaking
of Noel put me in mind of it.

"When I got home again," he continued, "there was nothing for me to do.
In those days folks did their own work. Then there was time for
everything. But the days are not as long as they used to be when I was
young. Now there's no time for anything.

"But Noel was a good man. He was handy, and amiable. He could lay a
roof, or mend a thresher, it was all the same to him. What do you
think, Jeminy? Anna Barly won't forget him in a hurry--heh?"

"No," said Mr. Jeminy; "no, Anna won't forget him in a hurry. That is
as it should be, William. She believes that she has suffered. And if
she fools herself a little, I, for one, would be inclined to forgive
her."

"She won't fool herself any," said Mr. Tomkins; "not Anna. Wait and
see."

The shadows of late afternoon stretched half across the field when Mr.
Jeminy laid down his fork, and started to return home. As he followed
Mr. Tomkins down the hill, he saw the tops of the clouds lighted by the
descending sun, and heard, across the valley, the harsh notes of a
cow's horn, calling the hands on Ploughman's Farm in from the fields.

He stopped a moment at a shadowy spring, hidden away among the ferns,
for a cup of cold, clear water. Holding the cup, made of tin, to his
lips, he observed:

"Thus, of old, the farmer stooped to refresh himself. When he was
done, he gave thanks to the rustic god, who watched his house, and
protected his flocks. They were the best of friends; each was modest
and reasonable. To-day God is like a dead ancestor; there is no way to
argue with him