"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.