"No," the woman whispered, abstractedly; "there's been a change. I ain't the same as I used to be."
"You ain't changed for the better, Millie. No, you ain't."
"I don't know," she mused. "Sometimes I think not. It ain't because I don't want you, Jim," she continued, speaking more softly, now, "that I don't let you in. God knows, I like to meet old friends; but——"
It was sufficient. The man gently took her arm from the way. He stepped in—glanced at the sleeping boy, lying still as death, shaded from the lamp—and turned again to the woman.
"Don't wake him!" she said.
They were still standing. The man was short, long-armed, vastly broad at the shoulders, deep-chested: flashy in dress, dull and kind of feature—handsome enough, withal. He was an acrobat. Even in the dim light, he carried the impression of great muscular strength—of grace and agility. For a moment the woman's eyes ran over his stocky body: then, spasmodically clenching her hands, she turned quickly to the boy on the bed; and she moved back from the man, and thereafter regarded him watchfully.
"Don't make no difference if I do wake him," he complained. "The boy knows me."
"But he don't like you."
"Aw, Millie!" said he, in reproach. "Come off!"
"I seen it in his eyes," she insisted.