The tramp had seated himself on the piazza step. He was looking vacantly before him. He remained so until the boy, frightened at his silence, moved further from him, toward the door. Then the tramp arose suddenly.
“Well,” he said, huskily, “I won't wait to see your mamma. You needn't tell her about me bein' here. But, say—could I just get a look at—at your grandma, without her knowing anythin about it?”
The boy took his sister's hand and withdrew into the doorway. Then he said, “Why, of course. You can see her through the window.”
The tramp stood against the edge of the piazza upon his toes, and craned his neck to see through one of the lighted windows. So he remained for several seconds. Once during that time he closed his eyes, and the muscles of his face contracted. Then he opened his eyes again. They were moist.
He could see a gentle old lady, with smooth gray hair, and an expression of calm and not unhappy melancholy. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, her hands resting on the arms, her look fixed unconsciously on the paper on the wall. She was thinking, and evidently her thoughts, though sad, perhaps, were not keenly painful.
The tramp read that much upon her face. Presently, without a word, he turned quickly about and hurried away, closing the gate after him.
When the two children told about their visitor later, their mother said:
“You mustn't talk to strange men, Tommy. You and Mamie should have come right in to grandma.”
Their father said: “He was probably looking for a chance to steal something. I'll let the dog out in the yard to-night.”
And their grandmother: “I suppose he was only a man who likes to hear children talk, and perhaps, poor fellow, he has no little ones of his own.”