Jan Tingloff slept in his new quarters that night. He saw nobody
connected with the house as he passed out in the morning; but that
evening as he entered the front-door he heard a cough. It was a woman's
cough and dimly he saw a woman's form--a rather slender form. Jan's
senses were the kind which see a thing large at first and then go back
for details. He hurried to close the door so that the cold November wind
would not endanger the poor creature further. As he closed the door she
said:

"Good evening."

Jan hurried to take off his hat.

"Good evening, ma'am."

"You go off early mornings, captain?"

"Yes, ma'am." He peered into the twilight of the hall and saw a hand
lighting the suspension lamp. "But I'm not a captain, ma'am. I was a
seafaring man one time; but I am a ship-carpenter now in a repairing job
on a big coaster in the dry dock, and I have to be over there early to
get my gang started."

She was turning the wick of the lamp high and then low, and high again,
and Jan was vexed to think he had not offered to light the lamp for her
in the first place, especially as he now recognized in her the same
sad-eyed woman who had showed him his room the evening before. It was
twilight then, too, but she had lit no lamp in the hall or in the room,
and Jan guessed why and did not blame her for it. The furnishings here,
as in his room, were shabby.