She was a short woman, colored a dark brown in which were shadows of blue and orange. She was of indeterminate age. She worked slowly, diligently, with a sort of submissive rhythm to the sweep of her arms, the sway of her head, as if an invisible Master timed her work with gentle strokes on her bent back. The contours and objects of the room were a familiar haze against her hands. Her eyes did not take in the books upon the mantel, the morris chair which her hands groomed and shifted, the blue cover of the couch which the room’s tenant used for a bed. Her eyes were focused dimly beyond the room, beyond the sunlight also that did not make them blink--beyond the sun. At times a murmur as of words answering in herself, a shred of tune, came from her. And these were in unison with the rapt measure of her work. And it with the distant fixedness of her eyes that moved as if to remain upon some point either far within or far without herself. Or both.... A tall young man ... almost a boy ... stood in the door. He buttressed both his palms against the threshold’s sides: he watched her. Her face turned to her shoulder, then fell forwards back into its somnolent rhythm. “Lor’! that you already? You-all _quick_ this mo’nin’.” “May I come in?” “Sho’ly, sho’ly. Sit down over th’ah.” She did not stop. She held a broom in her two brown hands. With a steady stroke of shoulder, back and forth it went, rasping ... swinging; her small, soft body cadenced with its stiff advance. “Th’ah you are, Mr. Loer!” She waved a musty rag over his desk, over a picture nailed above it. “Th’ah you are.” She turned and smiled at him. He was still standing in the threshold. She had a round, small face, and her big mouth smiling seemed to cover it. Her eyes still focused distantly. She dropped the broom against a shoulder and flung the rag into the fold of an elbow. She laughed. “What yo’ got, this mo’nin’? I’m done. Come along in.” “I don’t feel like being alone this morning, Clara.” Clara’s smile was tender. Her face tilted to a side. “Lonely, Mr. Loer?” she said. He felt caressed. “Oh, no.” He stepped into the room, lifting his knees unnecessarily high. He sank down in the morris chair and primed a pipe. “Clara,” he seemed to hold her, “how’d you sleep last night?” She folded her hands. “Oh, fine, Mr. Loer. You know I always sleeps fine.” “Well I slept rotten.” “I wouldn’t sleep none at all, Mr. Loer ... ef I went to sleep same as you does.” He looked up from his pipe. “What do you mean?” “’Thout prayin’. Yo’ tole me so yo’self. No wonder you sleep rotten. Lor’! I wouldn’t sleep none at all ... ef ... I went to sleep ’thout prayin’.” She paused. “Watch out, Mr. Loer,” she said with a sweet tremulousness. “Supposin’ the time comes when you cyant sleep at all.” “I don’t know whom to pray to.” The old woman looked at the broomstick standing against her shoulder. “And you so--eddicated,” she declared.