It was
Jim's custom to call at morning and at evening. Sometimes, after
looking about the place, he would merely come to the door and ask after
Mr. Pennington and then go away.
One morning when Louise answered his tap at the door, she told him that
the sufferer was much better and that she believed he was going to get
well.
"I'm mighty glad to hear it," he replied. "The doctors can't always
tell."
"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."
"Where did you get that cat?"
"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.
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