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." "I'm glad," said Mr. Tomkins, "that the minister isn't here to listen to you. Come along now; I've plenty still to do before supper. The widow Wicket's gate is down. But I've promised to set a fence for Farmer Barly first." "You need help, William," remarked Mr. Jeminy thoughtfully; "you need help. I must see what I can do." And he went home, down the hill, after Mr. Tomkins. The next day he started out early in the morning. When Mrs. Grumble asked him where he was going, he replied, "I must step over to Mr. Tomkins, to help him with something." From Mr. Tomkins he borrowed a saw, a plane, a hammer, and a box of nails. Then he hurried off to mend Mrs. Wicket's gate. On the way he stopped to gather an armful of goldenrod for his friend, and also to pick a yellow aster for himself, from Mrs. Cobbler's garden. When he arrived at Mrs. Wicket's cottage, the widow's pale face and listless manner, filled him with alarm. "I've been up with Juliet," she said. "The child has a touch of croup. It's nothing. She's better this morning." And she gave him her hand, still cold with the chill of night. "Good heavens," exclaimed Mr. Jeminy; "I am sure Mrs. Grumble would have been glad to keep you company." Mrs. Wicket smiled. But she did not answer this declaration, which Mr. Jeminy knew in his heart to be untrue. Putting down his tools, he began to examine the gate. "Hm," he said. "Hm. Yes, I'll soon have this fixed for you." Mrs. Wicket stood watching him with a gentle smile. "You're very kind," she said. "It's very kind of you, Mr. Jeminy. Most folks are too proud to turn a hand for me, no matter what was to happen." "Tut," said Mr. Jeminy. "Well, it's a fact," said Mrs. Wicket gravely. "I've never felt loneliness like I do here. Not ever. Because I've had trouble, Mr. Jeminy, and known sorrow, folks leave me alone. I'd go away . . . only where would I go?" "Sorrow," said Mr. Jeminy, "is a good friend, Mrs. Wicket. Sorrow and poverty are close to our hearts. They teach the spirit to be resolute and indulgent. "One must also learn," he added, "to bear sorrow without being vexed by it."