So Minnie put on her poor little coat and hat and hurried off to Mr. Petersen’s house. She had never been in it before. Mrs. Hansen, the housekeeper, observed her coming up the front steps with deep misgivings. She knew her well by sight; had often seen her in the old days, driving by with her sister, and even then had been inordinately irritated.... The idea of Mr. Petersen, king of men, learned, just, endowed with every virtue, forever picking his choicest flowers and fruits for those “beggars,” as she called them! Living there all those years without paying him a penny, and then, if you please, walking off without so much as thank you! Ungrateful creatures, owing everyone, and turning up their noses at honest people ten times better than themselves. And this one was the worst of the lot. However, with a manner absolutely correct, Mrs. Hansen opened the door, and even smiled. “I am Mrs. Naylor,” said Minnie, pleasantly. “I know who _you_ are, and all about you!” thought Mrs. Hansen, though aloud she said, “Yes, ma’am.” Although her husband was a Socialist, and her revered Mr. Petersen as well, Mrs. Hansen had no patience with such ideas. She knew herself to be a housekeeper, and as a housekeeper, socially obliged to call this widow “ma’am.” “I came for my little girl,” Minnie went on. “I felt worried about her this morning. She didn’t seem well.” Mrs. Hansen had her private opinion about the cause of the child’s listlessness, which she had confided to her husband, but not, of course, to Mr. Petersen, whom she looked upon as already lost. “The child’s up till all hours of the night,” she said to Hansen, “and eats all sorts of trash. What could you expect?” “I think she’s better now,” she said to Minnie, “she’s taken two glasses of milk.” “You do take such wonderful care of her,” Minnie returned; “she tells me at night of so many things you’ve done for her.” “She’s a lovely, good child,” Mrs. Hansen answered, quite unmoved by the flattery. She led Minnie through a narrow red-carpeted passage into her kitchen, pride and joy of her life, filled with sun and sweet air, utterly clean, gleaming and neat. From the window she pointed out the quiet baby, sitting on the back steps, leaning her head against a post, languid, thoughtful, quite contented. Beside her sat an immense cat. “Why!” cried Minnie. “That--can it _possibly_ be Michael?” “Yes, ma’am, it’s your cat. Mr. Petersen took it after your sister left.” Minnie looked down with tears in her eyes at her long-lost darling, sleek and fat still, but old; his buccaneer swagger gone, his insolent eyes dim. She touched his head, with the furry skin so tightly drawn over the round little skull; but he never stirred. He didn’t know her, didn’t care for her. Then she took Sandra by the hand and led her off, out of the fresh air and the quiet garden, back to the hotel, where she got her into bed in their hot little room and read to her, hovered over her, flooded her with sympathy.