"Why, Jason, he's thanking you!" cried his mother. "He'll never forget what you've done for him tonight."
Jason gave the horse a careless slap and started out the stable door.
"You'll be having it that he speaks Greek next," he said.
"You don't know him," replied Jason's mother. "This is the first time you ever saw him, remember. These last three years of your father's life he's been like one of the family." She followed Jason into the cottage. "Often and often before your poor father died he said he'd never have been able to keep on with the circuit-riding and the preaching if he'd had to depend on any other horse than Pilgrim. That horse just knew father was forgetful. He wouldn't budge if father forgot the saddle-bags. When Pilgrim balked, father always knew he'd forgotten 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!"