She had not meant to go in, merely intended to pass the house, speak to Michael, perhaps, if indeed, he still presided over door and elevator.
And there he was, outside the door on a chair, smoking his clay pipe and surveying the hot and silent street, where not even a sparrow stirred.
"Michael," she said, smiling.
For a moment he did not know her, then: "God's glory!" he said huskily, getting to his feet—"is it the sweet face o' Miss Greensleeve or the angel in her come back f'r to bless us all?"
She gave him her hand, and he held it and looked at her, earnestly, wistfully; then, with the flashing change of his race, the grin broke out:
"I'm that proud to be remembered by the likes o' you, Miss Athalie! Are ye well, now?—an' happy? I thank God for that! I am substantial—with my respects, ma'am, f'r the kind inquiry. And Hafiz? Glory be, was there ever such a cat now? D'ye mind the day we tuk him in a bashket?—an' the sufferin' yowls of the poor, dear creature. Sure I'm that glad to hear he's well;—and manny mice to him, Miss Athalie!"
Athalie laughed: "I suppose all your tenants are away in the country," she ventured.
"Barrin' wan or two, Miss. Ye know the young Master will suffer no one in your own apartment."
"Is it still unoccupied, Michael?"