Hard work and inherent industry had developed in Little Jim an
independence that would have been considered precocious in the East. Big
Jim was glad that the mother's absence did not seem to affect the boy
much. Little Jim seemed quite philosophical about it. Yet, deep in his
heart, Little Jim missed his mother, more than his father realized. The
house seemed strangely empty and quiet. And it had seemed queer that Big
Jim should cook the supper, and, later, wash the dishes.

That evening, just before they went to bed, Big Jim ransacked the
bureau, sorting out his own things, and laying aside a few things that
his wife had left: a faded pink ribbon, an old pair of high-heeled
slippers, a torn and unmended apron, and an old gingham dress. Gathering
these things together, Big Jim stuffed them in the kitchen stove. Little
Jim watched him silently.

But when his father came from the stove and sat down, Little Jim slipped
over to him. "Dad, are you mad at ma for leavin' us?" he queried.

Big Jim shook his head. "No, Jimmy. Just didn't want to leave her things
around, after we had gone. Benson'll be movin' in sometime this week. I
sold our place to him."

"The stove and beds and everything?"

"Everything."

Little Jim wrinkled his nose and sniffed. "Them things you put in the
stove smell just like brandin' a critter," he said, gesturing toward the
kitchen.