Tony had come to the basement door one snowy, blowy day of a particularly cruel winter, when Hetty was maid of all work. He stood knee-deep in a drift when she opened the grated door and asked, hoarsely but without a touch of the beggar’s whine, for “a job to keep him from starvin’.” He was, as he “guessed,” twenty years of age, emaciated from a spell of “new-money,” and so nearly blind that the suggestion of a “job” was pitiably preposterous. Hetty took him into her neat kitchen, made him a cup of tea, and cut and plied him with bread and butter until he asserted that he was “right-up-an’-down chirpy, jes’ as strong’s enny man. Couldn’t he rake out the furnace, or saw wood, or clear off the snow, or clean shoes, or scrub the stairs, or mend broken things, or wash windows, or peel pertaters, or black stoves, or sif’ ashes, or red-up the cellar—or—or—somethin’, to pay for his dinner? I aint no beggar, ma’am—nor never will be!” Hetty hired him as a “general utility man,” at ten cents a forenoon and his breakfast, for a week—then, for a month. He lodged wherever he could—in stable lofts, at the police station, under porches on mild nights, and when other resorts were closed, in a midnight refuge, and never touched liquor or tobacco in any form. At the month’s end, his girlish patroness cleared a corner of the attic between the sharp angle and the chimney, set up a cot, and allowed him to sleep there. Mr. Wayt had no suspicion of the disreputable incumbent of the habitation honored by his name and residence, until one memorable and terrible March midnight when a doctor must be had without the delay of an instant revealed the secret, but under circumstances that strengthened the retainer’s hold upon his employers. Since then, he had been part and parcel of the establishment, proving himself as proficient in removals and settlings-down as in other branches of his business. Mr. Wayt liked to allude to him as “Hetty’s Freak.” At other times he nicknamed him “Kasper Hauser.” Once, and once only, in reference to Hetty’s influence over the being he chose to regard as half-witted, he spoke of him as “a masculine Undine,” whereupon his sister-in-law turned upon him a look that surprised him and horrified his wife, and marched out of the room. Mrs. Wayt followed her presently and found her gazing out of the window of the closet to which she had fled, with livid face and dry eyes that were dangerously bright. “Percy hopes you were not hurt by his harmless little jest,” said the gentle wife. “You know, Hetty, it would kill me if you and he were to quarrel. He has the kindest heart in the world, and respects you too sincerely to offend you knowingly. You must not mind what sounds like extravagant speech. We cannot judge men of genius as we would ordinary people. And, dear, for my sake be patient!” The girl yielded to the weeping embrace of the woman whose face was hidden upon her shoulder.