“Oh, say Amos when you’re sick, Miss Clark,” he cried, impulsively; she seemed so little, so feeble, and so alone. “You’re a kind man, Amos Wickliff,” said she. “Now first tell me, would you give the Colonel and ’Squire a home as long as they need it?” Amos gave an inward gasp; but it may be imputed to him for righteousness some day that there was only an imperceptible pause before he answered, “Yes, ma’am, I will; and take good care of them, too.” “Here’s something for you, then; take it now.” She handed him a large envelope, sealed. “It’s for any expenses, you know. And—I’ll send ’em over to-morrow.” He took the package rather awkwardly. “Now you know you have a nephew—” he began. “I know, and I know why he’s here, too. And in that paper is my will; but don’t you open it till I’m dead a month, will you?” Amos promised in spite of a secret misgiving. “And now,” she went on, in her nervous way, “I want you to do something right kind for me—not now—when Mrs. Raker goes; she’s a good soul, and I hope you’ll give her the envelope I’ve marked for her. Yes, sir, I want you to do something for me when she’s gone. Move in the four chairs from down-stairs—the pretty ones—all the rest are plain, so you can tell; and fetch me the tray with the wineglasses and the bottle of shrub—you’ll find the tray in the buffet with the red curtains down-stairs in my office. Then you go into the kitchen—I feel so sorry to have to ask a gentleman to do such things, but I do want them—and you’ll see a round brown box with Cake marked on it in curly gilt letters, and you’ll find a frosted cake in there wrapped up in tissue-paper; and you take it out, and get a knife out of the drawer, and fetch all those things up to me. And then, Amos Wickliff, all the friend I’ve got in the world, you go and stay outside—it ain’t cold or I wouldn’t ask it of you—you stay until you hear my bell. Will you?” Amos took the thin hand, involuntarily outstretched, and patted it soothingly between both his strong brown hands. “Of course I will,” he promised. And after Mrs. Raker’s departure he did her bidding, saying often to himself, “Poor lady!” When the bell rang, and he came back, the wineglasses and the decanter were empty, and the cake was half gone. He made no comment, she gave him no explanation. Until Mrs. Raker returned she talked about releasing some of her debtors. The following morning he came again.