Often on a rainy day, or when work was dull, Joe would spend an hour or
two with Phil, relieving his loneliness, soothing his pain, and cheering
him with his music and his rambling talk about "old times" and the
people he had seen.
It was the latter part of May, and had been very warm; but Joe buttoned
up his best coat and donned his beaver, for his pay was due at Miss
Schuyler's. She lived in a large house, rather imposing and handsome,
and in the gayest part of the city; but she was by no means imposing or
gay in her own person. A little figure, simply dressed, a kind face
without beauty, a gentle manner, and a certain gracious kindliness and
familiarity had endeared her to Joe. On this day she was not, as usual,
sitting with her work in the library, where the sun poured in on the
bronzes and richly bound volumes, on the old engravings and the frescoed
ceiling--for Miss Schuyler liked light and warmth and color--but she was
away up in the top of the house, directing her maids in the packing of
blankets and woollens and furs, preparatory to leaving her house for the
summer. Joe had mounted stair after stair seeking her, and by the time
he reached her was quite out of breath; this, and the odor of camphor
and cedar-wood, made him sneeze and cough until Miss Schuyler said to
one of the maids in a whisper, "The poor old soul would have been black
in the face had he ever been white.
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