"Tomorrow's Thanksgiving, Jason."
"I'll be glad to forget it," grumbled Jason. "What have we to be thankful for?"
His mother looked at him a little curiously, but she said nothing. Jason caught the expression in her eyes.
"Don't look at me that way, mother," he burst forth angrily, "I can't forgive father, with his big brain and body for doing so little for you and me. I can't forgive him for what he dragged us through—those donation parties! He had no right to put me through what he did that year at High Hill. And what did he get out of his life? They lay him away with the remark that he had a gift of prayer! And his widow may starve, for all of them."
"Jason, be silent," cried his mother. She had risen and stood facing him, her face deathly white. "Not one word against your father. Because you never could appreciate him, you needn't belittle him now. Not one word," as Jason would have spoken. "He was my husband and I loved him, God knows. O Ethan, Ethan, how shall I finish my span of years alone!" she broke down utterly.
Jason put his arms about her. "Mother, I didn't mean to hurt you. Truly I didn't. It's only that—" he stopped and set his lips tightly while he petted her in silence.
"I pray, Jason," said his mother, finally, "that you will never have a grief or a punishment great enough to soften your heart."
Jason did not answer. He went up to see Mr. Inchpin that night, and the following day started back East again.