He was one who appeared to dwell always in the shadow of
a great grief, and this made him generally respected by his neighbours
though he was seldom sought. People said of him that he was "a solid
man and trustworthy," but they kept out of his way unless there was road
mending or a sale of timber to be arranged.
Blossom tossed the buckwheat cakes into a plate and brought them to her
father, who helped himself with his knife. When she passed them to Abel,
who was feeding his favorite hound puppy, Moses, with bacon, he shook
his head and drew back.
"Give them to mother, Blossom, she never eats a bite of breakfast," he
said. He was the only one of Sarah's sons who ever considered her, but
she was apt to regard this as a sign of weakness and to resent it with
contumely.
"I ain't hungry," she replied grimly, "an' I reckon I'd rather you'd say
less about my comfort, Abel, and do mo'. Buckwheat cakes don't come well
from a son that flies into his mother's face on the matter of eternal
damnation."
Without replying, Abel helped himself to the cakes she had refused and
reached for the jug of molasses. Sarah was in one of her nagging moods,
he knew, and she disturbed him but little.
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