As she said it and gently stroked his hair, a dreary sense of aloofness came over her and she knew that she was lying.
"Come, Jerry, some hot coffee'll do you good," she rallied, lifting his head from her lap. "An' this pan o' cakes is burnt clean to a crisp. I'll have to fry another batch."
While she fried the cakes, he hunched over the stove, and shiver after shiver turned his cheeks pale.
"Seems like I can't git warm," he said, his teeth chattering. "The cold's gone clean into my insides an' don't wanta come out. Gawd, it was cold on the way home. I thought the road'd never come to a end. I walked most of the way; but even so my feet was like ice. An' when I come to unbuckle the harness I couldn't hardly make my fingers work."
He shivered again.
She dragged the table over to the stove, poured him out coffee and set fried bacon and hot cakes before him. He ate and felt better; but still the shivers kept going over him.
"Dan went to-day," he said, setting down his cup after a long draught of coffee. "I met him jes afore I come to Georgetown. I didn't have the heart to tell him the market'd caved in; so I jes waved my arm to him an' kep' on a-goin'. Poor Dan! It'll come hard on him, too. He was a-buildin' great hopes on this crop—same as me."
He fell silent, musing with his chin on his hand and forgot to eat. When he roused himself he poked more wood into the stove and put his feet in the oven.
"Gawd, I feel like I could bake forever."
The cold spell held on. It was unusual for such extreme weather to last so long. The next day was bitter. That night when they went to bed they piled on old coats over the quilts for extra warmth and put hot flatirons in the bed.