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."