her."

Mr. Jeminy nodded his head. "I am not surprised," he said. And,
indeed, it did not surprise him. Now that the war was over, the
neighbors no longer came to his cottage with gifts of vegetables,
fruit, and milk. Mrs. Grumble looked at him thoughtfully, and while
she washed the plates at the kitchen sink, sighed from the bottom of
her soul. Although she liked Mr. Jeminy who, she declared, was a good
man, she felt, nevertheless, that in his company her talents were
wasted. "It is impossible to talk to Mr. Jeminy," she told Miss Beal,
the dress-maker, "because he talks so much."

It was true; Mr. Jeminy liked to talk a great deal. But his
conversation, which was often about such people as St. Francis, or
Plotinus, did not seem very lively to Mrs. Grumble. "He talks about
nothing but the dead," she said to Miss Beal; "mostly heathen."

"No," said Miss Beal. "How aggravating."

Now, Mr. Jeminy, unheeding the sighs of his housekeeper, continued:
"But after all, I would not change places with Farmer Barly. For
riches are a source of trouble, Mrs. Grumble; they crowd love out of
the heart. A man is only to be envied who desires little."

"It is always the same," said Mrs. Grumble; "the rich have their
pleasures, and the poor people their sorrows."

"That," said Mr. Jeminy, "is the mistake of ignorance. For Epictetus
was a slave, and Saint Peter was a fisherman. They were poor; but they
did not consider themselves unfortunate. More to be pitied than either