It would be false to say that one could ever be alone when one has
one's lovely thoughts to comfort one. One sits by one's self, it is
true, but one thinks; one opens one's favorite book and reads one's
favorite story; one speaks to one's aunt or one's brother, fondles
one's cat, or looks at one's photograph album. There is one's work
also: what a joy it is to one, if one happens to like work. All one's
little household tasks keep one from being lonely. Does one ever feel
bereft when one picks up one's chips to light one's fire for one's
evening meal? Or when one washes one's milk pail before milking one's
cow? One would fancy not.