"
As he stood above the sink, rubbing the dishes with a damp cloth, he
thought: "When I die, I should like it said of me: By his own efforts,
he remained a poor man." And he stood still, the dishtowel in his
hand, thinking of that wealthy iron-master, whose epitaph is said to
read: Here lies a man who knew how to enlist in his service better men
than himself.
When the dishes were dried, Mr. Jeminy retired to his den. This little
room, from whose windows it was possible to see the sky above Barly
Hill, blue as a cornflower, boasted a desk, an old leather chair, and
several shelves of books, among them volumes of history and travel, a
King James' Bible, Arrian's Epictetus, Sabatier's life of Saint
Francis, the Meditations of Antoninus, bound in paper, and a Jervas
translation of Don Quixote. Here Mr. Jeminy was at home; in the
evening he smoked his pipe, and read from the pages of Cervantes, whose
humor, gentle and austere, comforted his mind so often vexed by the
negligence of his pupils.
On the evening of which I am speaking, Mr.
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