But the younger brother--our Mr. Clark-- remained, and he was sterling--"straight goods" in all respects. Lived with his mother--was her sole support. A proud woman, Mrs. Clark-- a proud woman, with a broken spirit--withdrawn entirely from the world, and had been so for years and years. The Clarks, as had been mentioned, were all peculiar--even the younger Mr. Clark, our friend, I had doubtless noticed was an odd genius, but he had stamina--something solid about him, for all his eccentricities--could be relied on. Had been with the house there since a boy of twelve--took him for the father's sake; had never missed a day's time in any line of work that ever had been given in his charge--was weakly-looking, too. Had worked his way from the cellar up--from the least pay to the highest--had saved enough to buy and pay for a comfortable house for his mother and himself, and, still a lad, maintained the expense of companion, attendant and maid servant for the mother. Yet, with all this burden on his shoulders, the boy had worried through some way, with a jolly smile and a good word for every one. "A boy, sir," the enthusiastic senior concluded--"a boy, sir, that never was a boy, and never had a taste of genuine boyhood in his life--no more than he ever took a taste of whisky, and you couldn't get that in him with a funnel!" At this juncture Mr. Clark himself appeared, and in a particularly happy frame of mind. For an hour the delighted senior and myself sat laughing at the fellow's quaint conceits and witty sayings, the conversation at last breaking up with an abrupt proposition from Mr. Clark that I remain in the city overnight and accompany him to the theater, an invitation I rather eagerly accepted. Mr. Clark, thanking me, and pivoting himself around on his high stool, with a mechanical "Good afternoon!" was at once submerged in his books, while the senior, following me out and stepping into a carriage that stood waiting for him at the curb, waved me adieu, and was driven away. I turned my steps up the street, but remembering that my friend had fixed no place to meet me in the evening, I stepped back into the storeroom and again pushed open the glass door of the office. Mr. Clark still sat on the high stool at his desk, his back toward the door, and his ledger spread out before him. "Mr. Clark!" I called. He made no answer. "Mr. Clark!" I called again, in an elevated key. He did not stir. I paused a moment, then went over to him, letting my hand drop lightly on his arm. Still no response. I only felt the shoulder heave, as with a long-drawn quavering sigh, then heard the regular though labored breathing of a weary man that slept. I had not the heart to waken him; but lifting the still moistened pen from his unconscious fingers, I wrote where I might be found at eight that evening, folded and addressed the note, and laying it on the open page before him, turned quietly away.