Sometimes, but not often, Bog was a listener at these rudimental concerts.  Since Marcus had come to the relief of the family, Bog felt that his mission was ended.  He knew that it was a piece of pure hypocrisy to call once or twice a week to see if he could be of any service, when he was aware that Mr. Minford had hired a woman, who lived on the floor below, to do all their household work, marketing, cooking, and general errands.  He knew that Pet, on these occasions, asked him to go for a spool of thread, or a paper of needles, or a package of candy, merely to gratify him with the idea that he was making himself useful.  When he came into the room tidily dressed, and highly polished as to his boots, he blushed even redder than he used to.  It was not the acquisition of a little money by Mr. Minford that had exalted his daughter in the-eyes of Bog, but the French and the music.  These two accomplishments seemed to lift her into an upper air of delicacy and refinement, for which Bog felt that his miserable education and clumsy manners quite unfitted him.  After Bog had performed some little invented errand for her, she would reward him with a short exercise, and Bog would sit, with open mouth and crossed legs, staring at Pet’s face and hands alternately, and beating time with his large red hands on his knees.

Bog knew the negro songs of the period, and admired them.  He would have liked to hear Pet play them, but feared she would think his musical taste very bad if he asked her to.  Her “exercises,” as she called them, he considered something perfectly wonderful, and belonging to a class of scientific music which a poor fellow like him could not be expected to enjoy.  But, like many an older and more worldly-wise person, he pretended to be thrown into raptures by it, and, at every pause in the playing, would say, “Beautiful! a’n’t it?” “That’s prime!” or “Splendid!” or “The best I ever heerd.”  Sometimes, at his earnest entreaty, Pet would read a page of French to him; and he would listen with awe and reverence, as to a beautiful sibyl prophesying in an unknown tongue.

Bog always paid these visits in the afternoon.  Marcus Wilkeson always called in the evening.  The two had met in the house rarely since New Year’s.  When they accidentally met on the sidewalk, within a square or two of the house, as they sometimes did, Bog colored up as if he were guilty of something.  Once Marcus Wilkeson saw Bog at a distance, turning suddenly down a side street, as if to avoid him; and Marcus wondered what could be the matter with the boy.  By industry and tact, Bog made money in his new partnership, and had already laid up a snug sum in the savings bank.