Miss Schuyler had opened the door so gently, and appeared so entirely at home, that Phil took her visit quite as a matter of course, and though astonished, was not at all flurried.  He fastened his searching gaze upon her, over the flowers which he held close to his lips, and made up his mind what to say.  At last, after deliberating, he said, simply, “I thank you very much.”  His thoughts ran this way:  “She is a real lady, a kind, lovely woman; she has on a nice dress—­nicer than Lisa’s; she has little hands, and what a soft pleasant voice!  I wonder if my mother looked like her?”

Miss Schuyler’s thoughts were very pitiful.  She was much moved by the pale little face and brilliant eyes, the pleased, shy expression, the air of refinement, and the very evident pain and poverty.  She could not say much, and to hide her agitation took up the sketch-book, saying, “May I look in this, please?”

Phil nodded, still over the flowers.

As the leaves were opened, one after the other, Miss Schuyler became still more interested.  The sketches were simply rude copies of newspaper pictures, but there was no doubt of the taste and talent that had directed their pencilling.

“Have you ever had any teaching, Phil?” she asked.

“No, ma’am,” answered Joe for Phil, thinking he might be bashful.  “He hasn’t had no larnin’ nor teachin’ of anythin’; but it is what he wants, poor chile, and he often asks me things I can’t answer for want of not knowin’ nuthin’ myself.”

“And what is this?” said Miss Schuyler, touching the box with violin strings across it, which was on a chair beside her.

“Please don’t touch it,” answered Phil, anxiously; then fearing he had been rude, added, “It is my harp, and I am so afraid, if it is handled, that the fairies will never dance on it again.  You ought to hear what lovely music comes out of it when the wind blows.”

Phil spoke as if fairies were his particular friends.  Miss Schuyler looked at him pitifully, thinking him a little light-headed.  Joe nodded, and looked wise, as much as to say, “I told you so.”

Just then Phil’s pain came on again, and it was as much as he could do not to scream; but Miss Rachel saw the pallor of his face, and turning to Joe, asked: 

“Does he have a doctor?  Is anything done for him?”

“Nuthin’, Miss Rachel, that I knows of.  I never knew of his havin’ a doctor.”

“Poor child!” said Miss Rachel, smoothing his forehead, and fanning him.  Then she tucked a pillow behind him, and did all so gently that Phil took her hand and kissed it—­it eased his pain so to have just these little things done for him.  Then she poured a little of her cordial in a glass with some water, and he thought he had never tasted anything so refreshing.  She sent Joe after some ice, and spreading her napkins out on Phil’s table, set all her little store of dainties before him, tempting the child to eat in spite of his pain.