Livingstone closed his books.

He had put everything in such shape that Clark, his confidential clerk, would not have the least trouble this year in transferring everything and starting the new books that would now be necessary.
Last year Clark had been at his house a good many nights writing up these private books; but that was because Clark had been in a sort of muddle last winter,--his wife was sick, or one of his dozen children had met with an accident,--or something,--Livingstone vaguely remembered.
This year there would be no such trouble.

Livingstone was pleased at the thought; for Clark was a good fellow, and a capable bookkeeper, even though he was a trifle slow.
Livingstone felt that he had, in a way, a high regard for Clark.

He was attentive to his duties, beyond words.

He was a gentleman, too,--of a first-rate family--a man of principle.