"I'm not afraid to die," Mrs. Ploughman declared. "There's things to do the other side of the grave, same as here. And it's a joy to do them, in the light of the Lord. I can tell you, Mrs. Crabbe, I won't be sorry to go. My folks are waiting there for me." Her voice trembled, and she rocked up and down to compose herself. "He needn't try to mix me up," she thought to herself; "not in my own home. No." "Then," said Mr. Jeminy, "you believe in an after life, Mrs. Ploughman?" "Yes," said Mrs. Ploughman firmly, directing her remarks to Mrs. Crabbe, "I do. I believe there's a life hereafter, when our sorrows will be repaid us. There weren't all those hearts broke for nothing, Mrs. Crabbe, nor for what's going on here now, with strikes, and famine, and bloody murders." "That's real edifying, Mrs. Ploughman," said Mrs. Crabbe, "real edifying. Yes," she exclaimed with energy, "these are terrible times. Now they give me tea without sugar in it. For there's no sugar to be had. Well, I won't drink it. I spit it out, when nobody's looking." And she plied her needles with vigor, to show what she thought of such an arrangement. "As I was saying," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's the young who get the old into trouble. And artful folk, who'd ought to know better, with the life they've had. I've had no peace in this life. But I'll have it hereafter." At this reflection upon Mrs. Wicket, Mr. Jeminy rose to go. "You are right," he said; "no one will disturb you." And he went home to Mrs. Grumble. "Where have you been all day?" she demanded. Mr. Jeminy smiled. He knew that Mrs. Grumble thought he had been spending the afternoon at Mrs. Wicket's. "I have been to call on Mrs. Ploughman," he said. "There I met old Mrs. Crabbe." Then Mrs. Grumble hurried out into the garden to pick a mess of young beans for supper, because Mr. Jeminy liked them better than squash. The bowl of squash she returned to the ice box. "I'll eat it myself, to-morrow," she thought. "Supper will be a little late," she said to Mr. Jeminy, "because the stove won't draw in wet weather." VI HARVEST Mr. Jeminy, clad in a pair of brown, earthy overalls, a blue, cotton shirt, and a straw hat, full of holes, was helping Mr. Tomkins dig potatoes, up on Barly Hill. From the field on the slopes above the village, he could see the hills across the valley, misted in the sun. Above him stretched the shining sky, thronged with its winds, the low clouds of early autumn trailing their shadows across the woods. All was peace; he saw September's yellow fields, and felt, on his face, the cool fall wind, with its smoke of burning leaves, mingled with the odor of spaded earth, and fresh manure.