"
"At any rate," remarked Mrs. Grumble, "it's not for you to say."
"It's not alone me is saying it," replied Miss Beal. "What's more,"
she added, "for all I don't like to repeat this to you, Mrs. Grumble,
there's many think Mr. Jeminy is too old to teach school any longer.
There's some would like to see a young woman at the schoolhouse."
"Oh," said Mrs. Grumble.
Miss Beal laid her hand on her friend's arm in a gesture at once
triumphant and consoling. "Never you mind," she said; "trouble comes
to all."
Mr. Jeminy went home from the fair with a light heart. He started
early, because he liked to walk; and he carried in his hand a bit of
lace for Mrs. Grumble. As he went down the road, beneath the turning
leaves, and through the shadows cast by the descending sun, he began to
sing, out of the fullness of his heart, the following song:
The Lord of all things,
With liberalitee,
Maketh the small birds,
To sing on every tree.
The Lord of all things,
He maketh also me;
Giveth me no wings,
Giveth me no words.
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