She did not invite me in, but the little boy held open the door and I walked into the kitchen. The breakfast things were piled up in the sink, unwashed. A boiler of clothes was on the fire, and May had her sleeves rolled up, ready to begin the wash. Her arms were as thin as pipe-stems, and behind her glasses I saw deep circles of blue flesh. She had grown older and thinner in the three years since she and Will left my house for good.
"Will's gone to the city," May remarked.
"He don't look strong, May. It made me feel bad to see him so—changed, not a bit like himself."
She seemed to bridle a little at this.
"He hasn't been real well since he had the fever at Montauk. He was reinfected at the hospital, and nearly died. When he got out he tried farming down in Texas, but his strength didn't come back as we expected, and the climate was too hot for him. So we came North to see if he could get some easier work."
"How are the children?" I asked, seeing a strange baby face peep around the corner of the clothes-basket.
"We lost the baby boy while Will was at Montauk. Another little girl has come since then. We call her Sarah."
She waited a moment, and then asked hesitatingly:—
"How's your Sarah? She didn't look well when I saw her last."
"No—she's been delicate some time—since our boy died, last summer. She's gone to Europe with the girls for a change."