"Won't you come in?"
"No, I might worry him."
"Oh, not in the least. He's asleep anyway, and I'm lonesome. Come in, please."
He followed her into the house, trying to lessen his weight as if he were walking on thin ice; and the old house cracked its knuckles, but his foot-fall made not a sound. She placed a chair for him and sat down with her hands in her lap, and how expressive they were, small and thin, but shapely. She was pale and neat in a black gown. To him she had never looked so frail, and her eyes had never appeared so deeply blue, but her hands—he could not keep his eyes off them—one holding pity and the other full of appeal.
"Don't you need a little more wood on?" he asked.
"No, it's not cold enough for much fire."
"She came crying around the other day and I let her in, and she has made herself at home."
"The negroes say it's good luck for a cat to come to the house." She sighed. "I don't believe in luck."
"I do. I believe in bad luck, for it's generally with me. Does your mother come every day?"