"Do you mean in a business way? Well, there were a number of men in Zala for whose honesty and ability he had great respect. Of the men out of town with whom he had business relations, I believe he trusted Mr. Stover more than any other." "Ruth, who was the cashier of the bank in which your father was president?" "His name is Dick Watson." "Where is he now?" "I don't know. He left Wilford Springs when Mr. Stover bought my father's interest, and I have not heard of him since." "Do you suppose that it is possible that Watson defrauded your father?" "No, my father's account at the bank tallied with his personal pass book. His bank stock was sold to Mr. Stover, as you know." "What did Watson do with his stock?" "He owned only a small amount of stock, and it also was purchased by Mr. Stover." "What kind of a looking fellow is this man, Watson?" "He is fairly good looking." Harold laughed. "When you ask a girl about a man's looks she answers: 'Handsome, good looking, fairly good looking, homely, ugly or ugly as a mud fence.'" "That's because we think so much of looks, I presume," she said, laughing, "or it may be because we are so limited in descriptive powers, but since you do not like my general statement I will try to be a little more specific. He is about five feet nine or ten inches in height, has light brown hair and dark blue eyes, his nose is rather prominent, when he smiles he displays a row of exceedingly white, even teeth. Is that sufficient?" "Very good. I believe you will be able to develop your descriptive powers." "Why should I?" "Well you may want to write novels some day." "If I do I will have you for one of the characters. You will be my hero." "I see that you will not succeed as a novelist." "Why?" "You have already shown sufficiently poor judgment in selecting a character to condemn you as a novelist; however, you might succeed as descriptive writer. I will test you a little farther. Did the man Watson have any peculiarities?" "Nothing that I remember, except he lisped slightly." "Speaking of descriptions," he remarked, "there is a scene that I would like to have descriptive power to describe." They were walking through the City's Natural Park and had come suddenly upon a little lake surrounded by wooded hills. It was the first of October, and nature's artist had tinted the foliage a rich golden hue. Two couples in row boats were rowing along the shaded side of the lake while shimmering light was reflected from the opposite side. The deep green of the grass which bordered the lake, the gold of the tree foliage, the blue of the sky above and the passing clouds mirrored in the water blended in a harmonious picture that no lover of beauty could fail to admire. "Isn't it beautiful!" Ruth exclaimed. "Yes, as Riley says, 'A picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock.'"