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 real companion that she had ever known. Now he was gone and she was alone. A weight like a great, cold stone settled itself upon her vitals; and as she gazed out over the darkening country it seemed to stretch endlessly, endlessly, like her future life, through a sad, dead level of unrelieved monotony.

Jerry came and slipped his arm about her waist, as he used to do in the old days when he and she were lovers.

"It's sad, hain't it, Judy, so many folks we've allus been used to gone, an' all in one winter: Uncle Jonah an' Uncle Sam Whitmarsh—an' now Uncle Jabez." Then after a pause, "But you an' me's got each other yet, Judy."

His arm tightened about her and he bent down and kissed her on the lips.

"Yes," she answered a little huskily, "we've got each other."

In its mercy the darkness hid her face.

He went into the kitchen to wash up. She could hear him lighting the lamp, pouring water into the tin basin and splashing it over his face, while he cheerfully rallied the children who had followed him in from their play. The lighted lamp cast an oblique golden band across the porch. She moved a little to be out of the path of the light and remained standing in the darkness.

"Whatcha got for supper, Judy? I'm most powerful hungry, an' these here young uns is a-diggin' into the cold corncakes like so many wolf cubs."

It was the inevitable summons. In obedience to it she roused herself, as she had done so many times before, and went into the house.