a
light in her eyes he had never seen before.

"He give me," she said, "the boy!"

"You're crazy about that kid," the man burst out, a violent, disgusted
whisper. "You're gone out of your mind."

"No, I ain't," she replied, doggedly. "I'm different since I got him.
That's all. And I'd like Dick to know that I look at him different
since he died. I can't love Dick. I never could. But I could thank
him if he was here. Do you mind what I called the boy? I don't call
him Claud now. I call him--Richard. It's all I can do to show Dick
that I'm grateful."

The man caught his breath--in angry impatience. "Millie," he warned,
"the boy'll grow up."

She put her hands to her eyes.

"He'll grow up and leave you. What you going to do then?"

"I don't know," she sighed. "Just--go along."

"You'll be all alone, Millie."

"He loves me!" she muttered. "He'll never leave me!"

"He's got to, Millie. He's got to be a man. You can't keep him."

"Maybe I _can't_ keep him," she replied, in a passionate undertone.
"Maybe I _do_ love you. Maybe he'd get to love you, too. But look at
him, Jim! See where he lies?"

The man turned towards the bed.

"It's on my side, Jim! Understand? He lies there always till I come
in. Know why?"

He watched her curiously.

"He'll wake up, Jim, when I lift him over. That's what he wants.
He'll wake up and say, 'Is that you, mother?' And he'll be asleep
again, God bless him! before I can tell him that it is. My God! Jim,
I can't tell you what it means to come in at night and find him lying
there. That little body of a man! That clean, white soul! I can't
tell you how I feel, Jim. It's something a man can't know. And do you
think he'd stand for you? He'd say he would. Oh, he'd say he would!
He'd look in my eyes, Jim, and he'd find out what I wanted him to say;
and he'd _say_ it. But, Jim, he'd be hurt. Understand? He'd think I
didn't love him any more. He's only a child--and he'd think I didn't
love him. Where'd he sleep, Jim? Alone? He couldn't do it. Don't
you _see_? I can't live with nobody, Jim. And I don't want to. I
don't care for myself no more. I used to, in them days--when you and
me and Dick and the crowd was all together. But I don't--no more!"

The man stooped, picked a small stocking from the floor, stood staring
at it.

"I'm changed," the woman repeated, "since I got the boy."

"I don't know what you'll do, Millie, when he grows up."

She shook her head.

"And when he finds out?"

"That's what I'm afraid of," she whispered, hoarsely. "Somebody'll
tell him--some day. He don't know, now. And I don't want him to know.
He ain't our kind. Maybe it's because I keep him here alone. Maybe
it's because he don't see nobody. Maybe it's just because I love him
so. I don't know. But he ain't like us. It would hurt him to know.
And I can't hurt him. I can't!"

The man tossed the stocking away. It fell upon a heap of little
under-garments, strewn upon the floor.

"You're a fool, Millie," said he. "I tell you, he'll leave you. He'll
leave you cold--when he grows up--and another woman comes along."

She raised her hand to stop him. "Don't say that!" she moaned. "There
won't be no other woman. There can't be. Seems to me I'll want to
kill the first that comes. A woman? What woman? There won't be none."

"There's _got_ to be a woman."

"What woman? There ain't a woman in the world fit to--oh," she broke
off, "don't talk of _him_--and a woman!"

"It'll come, Millie. He's a man--and there's got to be a woman. And
she won't want you. And you'll be too old, then, to----"

The boy stirred.

"Hist!" she commanded.

They waited. An arm was tossed--the boy smiled--there was a sigh. He
was sound asleep again.

"Millie!" The man approached. She straightened to resist him. "You
love me, don't you?"

She withdrew.

"You want to marry me?"

Still she withdrew; but