“He’s a great sufferer, but he’s a wonderful chile.  He loves to have me play for him, and then he tells me the thoughts that come to him from the music.  I’s no great player, Miss Rachel,” said Joe, modestly, “but you’d think I was, to hear him talk.  He sees fairies and he dreams beautiful things, and his big brown eyes look as if he could a’most see ’way up into heaven.  Oh, he’s a strange chile; but he’ll die if he stays up in that garret room and nebber sees the green fields he’s so hungry for.”

Miss Rachel’s eyes were moist, but she took a card and pencil from her desk.  “Where does he live—­in what street and what number?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Rachel—­You jess go up the Avenue, and turn down the fourth or fifth street, and up a block or two, and it’s the fust house with a high stoop and green shutters.  I allers go in the alleyway, so I forgit numbers.”

Miss Schuyler bit her lip to keep from smiling, thought a moment, scribbled a memorandum, rang the bell, and gave some more directions; left the room, and came back with her bonnet on.  “Can you show me the way to Phil’s house, Joe?”

“Course I can, Miss Rachel,” replied the old man, delighted that his words had aroused his listener’s sympathies.

“It’s not very far; he’s all alone, ’cause Lisa has to be away all day.  And I shouldn’t wonder”—­here he dropped his voice to a whisper—­“if sometimes he was hungry; but he’d nebber say so.”

This latter remark made Miss Schuyler bid Joe wait for her in the hall, while she went to a closet, found a basket, in which she placed a snowy napkin, some biscuit, some cold chicken, and a few delicious little cakes.  In her pocket she put a little flask of some strong cordial she had found of service on her many errands of charity.

How proud Joe was to be her escort! but how meekly he walked behind the lady whose footsteps he thought were those of a real gentlewoman, the only one to whom he would accord this compliment, although he passed many elegant dames in gay attire.

The little gray figure, with its neat, quiet simplicity, was his embodiment of elegance, for somehow Joe had detected the delicate perfume of a sweet nature and a loving heart—­a heart full of Christian charity and unselfishness.

They walked for some distance, and the day was so warm that Miss Schuyler moderated her usual rapid pace to suit the old man’s feebler steps.  Off the Avenue a long way, up another, down a side street, until, amid a crowded, disagreeable neighborhood, Joe stopped.

“You had better lead me still, Joe.  The boy might be frightened or annoyed at seeing a stranger:  I dare say he’s nervous.  Go up, and I will wait outside the door while you ask him if I may come and see him.  Wait, there’s a flower-stall a little way from here; I will get a bunch.  Take my basket, and I will be back in a few moments.  I am glad I thought of the flowers; children always like them.”