From the time Malachi unlocked the front
doors in the morning until he bolted them for the
night, Nathan came and went. The brick pavements
were worn smooth, the neighbors said, between the
flute-player's humble lodgings in a side street and
the Horn house, so many trips a day did the old man
make. People smiled at him as he hurried along,
his head bent forward, his long pen-wiper cloak reaching
to his heels, a wide-brimmed Quaker hat crowning
his head.

And always, whenever the night or whatever the
function or whoever the guests, a particular side-table
was sure to be moved in from Malachi's pantry and
covered with a snow-white cloth which played an important
part in the evening's entertainment. This
cloth was never empty. Upon its damask surface
were laid a pile of India-blue plates and a silver basket
of cake, besides a collection of low glass tumblers with
little handles, designed to hold various brews of Malachi's
own concoctions, which he alone of all the denizens
of Kennedy Square could compound, and the
secret of which unhappily has perished with him.

And what wondrous aromas, too!

You may not believe it, but I assure you, on the
honor of a Virginian, that for every one of these different
nights in the old house on Kennedy Square
there were special savory odors emanating from these