It was raining on this particular day, the last day in the “trial month,” and Jed, working at his lathe, momentarily expected Barbara to appear, with Petunia under one arm and a bundle of dolls’ clothes under the other, to announce casually that, as it was such bad weather, they had run in to keep him, Mr. Winslow, from getting lonesome.  There was precious little opportunity to be lonesome where Babbie was.

But this morning the child did not come and Jed, wondering what the reason for her absence might be, began to feel vaguely uncomfortable.  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.

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!