and, with head up, gravely and noiselessly precede
him into the drawing-room--the only time he ever
dared to walk before him--and with a wave of the
hand and the air of a prince presenting one of his
palaces, would say--"Yo' char's all ready, Marse
Richard; bright fire burnin'." Adding, with a low,
sweeping bow, now that the ceremony was over--
"Hope yo're feelin' fine dis evenin', sah."

He had said it hundreds of times in the course of
the year, but always with a salutation that was a
special tribute, and always with the same low bow,
as he gravely pulled out the chair, puffing up the
back cushion, his wrinkled hands resting on it until
Richard had taken his seat. Then, with equal gravity,
he would hand his master the evening paper and
the big-bowed spectacles, and would stand gravely
by until Richard had dismissed him with a gentle
"Thank you, Malachi; that will do." And Malachi,
with the serene, uplifted face as of one who had
served in a temple, would tiptoe out to his pantry.

It had gone on for years--this waiting for Richard
at the foot of the staircase. Malachi had never
missed a night when his master was at home. It was
not his duty--not a part of the established regime
of the old house. No other family servant about Kennedy
Square performed a like service for master or
mistress. It was not even a custom of the times.