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 serious eyes. For in Juliet's opinion, Mr. Jeminy was involved in a difficult task; and she was afraid he might not be able to go through with it. "How many rooms," she said, "is my doll's house going to have?" "I had counted," said Mr. Jeminy, "on two." And he went over the plans, using his hammer as a pointer. "Here is the bedroom," he said, "and there is the kitchen. There's where the stove is going to be." Juliet followed him without interest. It was apparent that she was disappointed. "Where's the parlor?" she demanded. "Must there be a parlor?" asked Mr. Jeminy, in surprise. "What do you think?" said Juliet. "I have to have a place for Anna to keep company in."