"Mr. Jeminy," said Mrs. Ploughman, "was a queer man, and no mistake. I remember the day he stepped in to pay me a call. Mrs. Crabbe was with me. 'Mrs. Ploughman,' he said, 'and you, Mrs. Crabbe, we're leaving a lot of trouble behind us.' Fancy that, Mrs. Tomkins—as though I'd up and go any minute. 'Mr. Jeminy,' I said, 'I'm not afraid to die. When my time comes, I'll go joyfully.'"
"No doubt you will," said Mrs. Tomkins comfortably.
"Well," said Mrs. Ploughman, "it's a good thing, in my opinion, he was made to give up teaching school. It's a wonder the children know anything at all, Mrs. Tomkins. I declare, it used to mix me up something terrible, just to listen to him."
Mrs. Tomkins gazed at her sewing with thoughtful pleasure. "It was a hard blow to him," she said. "He did his best. Maybe he was a little queer. But he harmed no one. He used to tell the children stories.
"How is Mrs. Grumble," she asked, "to-day?"
"Weak," said Mrs. Ploughman; "very weak, out of her mind part of the time with the fever."
"Do you calculate she'll die, Mrs. Ploughman?"
"I don't know. But I don't calculate she'll live, Mrs. Tomkins. Still, we must hope for the best. This is the way it was; first the influenza, and then the pneumony. Double pneumony, the doctor says. There's a lot of it around again, like last year. It takes the young and the hardy. It won't get me. No.
"There's nothing to do for it," she added, "nothing, that is, beyond nursing."
"If it wasn't for Mrs. Wicket," said Mrs. Tomkins, "I expect she'd have been dead before this. Mrs. Wicket's a capable woman in things like that. Capabler than Miss Beal. There was no one else ever made me so comfortable. I have to say that about her; Mrs. Grumble's getting the best of care. And I'm looking after Juliet. Not that she's any trouble; she's as quiet as a mouse, playing all day long with her dolls."