He would not admit it, even to himself; it was ridiculous. He was
not lonesome, he was just a little "blue," that was all. It was
the weather; he might have caught a slight cold, perhaps his
breakfast had not agreed with him. He tried to remember what that
breakfast had been. It had been eaten in a hurry, he had been
thinking of something else as usual, and, except that it consisted
of various odds and ends which he had happened to have on hand, he
could not itemize it with exactness. There had been some cold
fried potatoes, and some warmed-over pop-overs which had "slumped"
in the cooking, and a doughnut or two and--oh, yes, a saucer of
canned peaches which had been sitting around for a week and which
he had eaten to get out of the way. These, with a cup of warmed-
over coffee, made up the meal. Jed couldn't see why a breakfast of
that kind should make him "blue." And yet he was blue--yes, and
there was no use disguising the fact, he was lonesome. If that
child would only come, as she generally did, her nonsense might
cheer him up a bit. But she did not come. And if he decided not
to permit her mother to occupy the house, she would not come much
more. Eh? Why, it was the last day of the month! She might never
come again!
Jed shut off the motor and turned away from the lathe. He sank
down into his little chair, drew his knee up under his chin, and
thought, long and seriously.
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