"Ah," said Mr. Tomkins wisely, "that's it. Well, Mrs. Wicket, now.
Still," he added, "he'll have a lot of nettles in that hay."
"The rich," Mr. Jeminy continued, "quarrel with the poor, and the poor, by way of answer, with rich and poor alike. And rich or poor, every man reaches for more, like a child at table. That is why, William, there is poverty to-day; poverty of the heart, of the mind, and of the spirit.
"And yet," he added stoutly a moment later, "I'll not deny there is plenty of light; yes, we are wise enough, there is love in our hearts . . . Perhaps, William, heaven will be found when old men like you and me, who have lost our way, are dead."
"Lost our way?" quavered Mr. Tomkins, "lost our way? What are you talking about, Jeminy?"
But the fire, burning so brightly before, was almost out. "Youth," said Mr. Jeminy sadly . . . And he sat quite still, staring straight ahead of him.
"Well," said Mr. Tomkins, "I'll be stepping on home." Clapping his hat somewhat uncertainly onto his head, he rose to go. Mr. Jeminy accompanied him to the door.
"Good-night," he said.
"Good-night," said Mr. Tomkins. And off he went along the path, to tell his wife, as he got into bed, that she was a lucky woman. But Mr. Jeminy stood in the doorway, gazing out across the hills, like David over Hebron. Below him the last late lanterns of the village burned in the valley. He heard the shrill kreef kreedn kreedn of the tree frogs, the cheep of crickets, the lonely barking of a dog, ghostly and far away; he breathed the air of night, cold, and sweet with honeysuckle. Age was in bed; only the young moved and whispered in the shadows; youth, obscure and immortal; love and hope, love and sorrow. From the meadows ascended the choir of cicada: katy did, katy didn't, katy did. . . .
Mr. Jeminy turned and went indoors.