"
"No," said Mrs. Grumble, "you'd better stay home and attend to things.
I won't be here much longer."
Mr. Jeminy wanted to say "nonsense," but he was unable to speak.
Instead he took Mrs. Grumble's hand in both of his. "Are you going to
leave me, dear friend?" he asked.
Mrs. Grumble smiled; then she gave a sigh. "Look what you called me,"
she said. And they were both silent, thinking of the past together.
In the distance the crisp footsteps of Mrs. Wicket died away down the
hill. And presently nothing was to be heard but the steady ticking of
the clock on the mantel. Then Mr. Jeminy, for once, could find nothing
to say. It seemed to him that instead of the clock's ticking, he heard
the footsteps of death in the house, on the stair . . . tik, tok, tik,
tok . . . And he sighed, with sadness and horror, "Ah, my friend," he
thought, "are you as frightened as I am?"
Presently he saw that Mrs. Grumble was trying to lift herself up in
bed. "I'm going now," she said. Her voice was low, but resonant.
"Mrs.
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