Sometimes, while he yet held the leaves in his hands and the pen in his mouth, with the appearance of the utmost abstraction in his task, his eyes wandered in to the inner office, and dimly saw his employer sitting silent and listless at his desk.

For many years he had been Boniface Newt's clerk; for many years he had been a still, faithful, hard-worked servant.

He had two holidays, besides the Sundays--New Year's Day and the Fourth of July.

The rest of the year he was in the office by nine in the morning, and did not leave before six at night.

During the time he had been quietly writing in those great red books he had married a wife and seen the roses fade in her cheeks--he had had children grow-up around him--fill his evening home and his Sunday hours with light--marry, one after another, until his home had become as it was before a child was born to him, and then gradually grow bright and musical again with the eyes and voices of another generation.