something and he'd go back for it. I'll have supper on by the time you've washed up, Jason."
The little stove that was set in the fireplace roared lustily. The kettle was singing. The old yellow cat slept cozily in the wooden rocker on the patch-work cushion. All the furniture, so simple and worn, was as familiar to Jason as the back of his hand.
Jason washed at the bench in the corner, then sat down while his mother put the supper before him—fried mush, fried salt pork, tea and apple sauce.
"Well," said Jason soberly, "what are we going to do now, mother? Father's gone and—"
His mother's trembling lips warned him to stop.
"It doesn't seem possible," she said, "that it's only a week since we laid him away."
Jason interrupted gently. "I know, mother; but you and I have got to go on living!"
