“Wash me an’ I shall be
Whiter dan snow.”
Stepping into the next room he found the singer to be an old negro, employed about the place to black boots, scrub floors, and perform whatever menial duties were considered below the dignity of his fellow-servants. His hair was powdered with white, and his face wrinkled like a prune, but there was a light in his eye which told that he was mindful of the words he sang. Farley was touched by their association with both his race and the tasks to which he was put, and entered into conversation with him. He found that ’Lijah, for so he was called, was receiving a mere pittance from the hotel, and even that would cease in a few weeks. Interesting himself thoroughly in the old man, he obtained for him a comfortable boarding-place in the city and a situation which befitted his years and sluggish movements, and, while affording but small pay, gave steady work from one year’s end to another.
So ’Lijah plodded humbly up and down the tracks, scattering his shovelfuls of sand, dodging passing vehicles as he best might, and living at peace with all men. Oftentimes Mars’ George, to whom, as his only tie in the world, he was as devoted as a Newfoundland dog, would spend the long winter evenings with him in his little room; or would even take him to a fairy play, whose fascinations affected him so powerfully that for days afterward he would occasionally be seen to stop at his work, gazing steadfastly at the pavements, from which, perhaps, he momentarily expected to see emerge a gnome or gauze-winged naiad.
Meanwhile he was full of interest in all that most nearly concerned the happiness of his friend and patron. Accordingly it was not long after Miss Rosy Burnham appeared on the scene, that old ’Lijah took occasion to slyly allude to the personal charms of the young lady, and to offer his services as a message-bearer, whenever occasion might arise.
Once ’Lijah had the supreme delight of nursing Farley through a short but severe illness. Then it was that his musical accomplishments, which had at first attracted his benefactor, again came into play. His repertoire, it is true, was scant, including only “Whiter than Snow,” which he had heard at one of Mr. Moody’s revival meetings, and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” doubtless a relic of the old days when the slaves sang at their work in the cotton fields, or among the huts at night. Of tune he knew absolutely nothing, and the different airs which he improvised for the words, according to the mood he was in, gave the effect of a much greater variety than the two hymns would otherwise have afforded.
To-night he was as happy as a child, and went to and fro about the house humming, to a tune which seemed a combination of “Dixie” and “Coronation”