Just what was the matter he did not know, but that
there was something wrong with him, Jed Winslow, was plain. He
could not seem to keep his mind on his work; he found himself
wandering to the window and looking out into the yard, where the
lilac bushes whipped and thrashed in the gusts, the overflowing
spouts splashed and gurgled, and the sea beyond the edge of the
bluff was a troubled stretch of gray and white, seen through
diagonal streaks of wind-driven rain. And always when he looked
out of that window he glanced toward the little house next door,
hoping to see a small figure, bundled under a big rain coat and
sheltered by a big umbrella, dodge out of the door and race across
the yard toward the shop.
But the door remained shut, the little figure did not appear and,
except for the fact that the blinds were not closed and that there
was smoke issuing from the chimney of the kitchen, the little house
might have been as empty as it had been the month before.
Or as it might be next month. The thought came to Jed with a
meaning and emphasis which it had not brought before. A stronger
gust than usual howled around the eaves of the shop, the sashes
rattled, the panes were beaten by the flung raindrops which pounded
down in watery sheets to the sills, and Jed suddenly diagnosed his
own case, he knew what was the matter with him--he was lonesome;
he, who had lived alone for five years and had hoped to live alone
for the rest of his life, was lonesome.
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