day she was not, as usual, sitting with her work in the library, where the sun poured in on the bronzes and richly bound volumes, on the old engravings and the frescoed ceiling—­for Miss Schuyler liked light and warmth and color—­but she was away up in the top of the house, directing her maids in the packing of blankets and woollens and furs, preparatory to leaving her house for the summer.  Joe had mounted stair after stair seeking her, and by the time he reached her was quite out of breath; this, and the odor of camphor and cedar-wood, made him sneeze and cough until Miss Schuyler said to one of the maids in a whisper, “The poor old soul would have been black in the face had he ever been white.”

To Joe himself she said, very kindly, “My good old friend, you need not have taken so much trouble to see me; I could have come down to you.”

“Laws, Miss Rachel, I knew you was busy, and nuffin’s ever a trouble to do for you; I go to the tops of houses often—­just come from one where poor Phil’s a-groanin’ with pain.  That chile’ll die if somebody don’t do suthin’ fur him soon.”

“What child?” asked Miss Schuyler, whose tender point was her love of children.  “You haven’t any grandchildren, Joe, have you?”

“No, Miss Rachel, de Lord nebber trusted me with any chil’en.”

“Well, who is Phil?” said Miss Schuyler, absently; adding, to one of her maids, “Take care of that afghan; wrap it in an old linen sheet; it was knitted by a very dear friend, and I do not want it moth-eaten; I had rather lose a camel’s-hair shawl.”  Which evidence or regard seemed very extravagant to the girl who was obeying instructions, but which Joe thought he appreciated.

“Haven’t I tole ye about Phil, Miss Rachel?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t think you have.  But come down to my room, Joe, and then I can listen to your story.”

Giving a few more directions, Miss Rachel led the way to a lovely sunny room, with flower-baskets in the windows, soft blue draperies, and delicate appointments.  Seating herself at a desk and pointing Joe to a chair, upon which the old man carefully spread a silk handkerchief lest his clothes should soil the blue cushions, she counted out the money due him, and placed it in an envelope, saying as she did so, “Now tell me about that child.”

“It’s a white chile, Miss Rachel.”

“Well, I like white children, Joe, though I must confess the little colored ones are much more interesting,” said Miss Rachel, smiling.

“I thought you liked my people, Miss Rachel; but this poor Phil’s a gentleman’s son, very much come down far’s money goes.  He is too young to know much about it, but the girl who takes care of him was brought up in his family, and she says they was well off once.”

“But what about the boy?” asked Miss Schuyler, a little impatiently.