That day was a curious medley of watchfulness over Tenney: for Raven felt the necessity of following him about to see he did himself no harm. He called him in to breakfast, but Tenney did not even seem to hear, and stood brooding in the yard, looking curiously down at his lame foot and lifting it as if to judge how far it would serve him. Then Charlotte, who had been watching from the window, went out and told him she had a bite for him in the shed, and he went in with her at once and drank coffee and ate the bread she buttered. He didn't, so he told her, want to touch things any more. So she broke the bread and he carried the pieces to his mouth with an air of hating them and fearing. When he went over to his house, Raven went with him, and, finding Jerry had milked and driven the cows to pasture, they stood outside, miserably loitering, because Tenney had evidently made that resolve not to go in.
"I suppose," said Raven, after a little, to recall him, "the milk is in there."
"Yes," said Tenney. "I s'pose 'tis."
"It isn't strained, you know. What do you mean to do about it?"
"Do?" said Tenney. "Let it set."
Again they loitered, back and forth, sometimes on one side of the woodpile, sometimes the other, each with a pretense of finding the woodpile itself a point of interest. Suddenly Tenney ceased his foolish walk up and down.
"Look here," said he, "should you jest as lieves go in?"
"Yes," said Raven. "Only you'd better come with me. Get it over. You've got to go into your own house."
"What I want," said Tenney, "is a blue apron, blue with white specks. I don't believe it's there, but if 'tis I want it."
To Raven, this was not strange. It was Tira's apron he wanted, something that belonged to her, to touch, perhaps to carry about with him as a reminder of the warmth and kindliness that lay in everything she owned. Blue! that was her Madonna color. No wonder Tenney remembered it, if it was blue.