In the afternoon Athalie was notified that her salary had been raised. She went home, elated and deeply touched by the generosity of Mr. Wahlbaum, scarcely able to wait for the morrow to express her gratitude to this good, kind man.
But on the morrow Mr. Wahlbaum was not there; nor did he come the day after, nor the day after that.
The following Tuesday she was seated in the office and generally occupied with business provided for her by the thrifty Mr. Grossman, when that same gentleman came into the office on tiptoe.
"Mr. Wahlbaum has just died," he said.
In the sudden shock and consternation she had risen from her chair, and stood there, one hand resting on her desk top for support.
"Pneumonia," nodded Mr. Grossman. "Sam he smoked too much all the time. That is what done it, Miss Greensleeve."
Her hands crept to her eyes, covered them convulsively. "Oh!" she breathed—"Oh!"
And, for a moment was not aware of the arm of Mr. Grossman around her waist,—until it tightened unctuously.
"Dearie," he murmured, "don't you take on so hard. You ain't goin' to lose your job, because I'm a-goin' to be your best friend same like he was—"