Mark Hilton, who had been in Mr. Taylor’s employ for three years, was tall and straight, with finely cut features and eyes which saw everything in you, around you and beyond you. Watchful eyes, which seemed always on the alert, and which might have belonged to a detective. Out of a hundred men, he would have been selected as the most distinguished looking and the one who bore himself with the air of one born to the purple rather than to the position of clerk in a country hotel. Nothing could be pleasanter or more magnetic than his smile and voice and manner. Craig had felt drawn to him at once, and, finding him intelligent and well educated, had seen a good deal of him during the short time he had been at the Prospect House. Uncle Zach adored him and treated him with a consideration not common between employer and employee. Pushing a chair towards him, he said: “Set down a spell and rest. It’s all fired hot in that office with the east sun blazin’ inter the winder.” Mark declined the chair with thanks, and passing the paper to Mr. Taylor said: “Peterson is here again with the subscription for the fence on the south side of the cemetery. I have been to Mrs. Taylor, who is too busy to see to it, and she sent me to you, saying you must use your judgment and give what you think best.” It was so seldom that Zacheus had the privilege of using his own judgment that he sprang up like a boy, and, taking the paper from Mark’s hand, read aloud, “Thomas Walker, ten dollars. Pretty fair for him. Miss Wilson, five dollars. Wall, I’ll be dumbed if she’s hurt herself with all her money. Why, the Widder Wilson could buy out Tom Walker fifty times, but she’s tight as the bark of a tree. William Hewitt, five dollars. Hello, he’s come round, has he? When they fust asked him to give towards the fence, he said, No. It was good enough as ’twas. Nobody outside the yard ever wanted to git in, and nobody inside could git out if he wanted to. Pretty good, wa’n’t it? I guess I’ll give ten dollars. I can afford it as well as Tom Walker. Widder Wilson, only five dollars. I’ll be dumbed!” He wrote his name with ten dollars against it and gave the paper to Mark, who, with a nod and smile for Craig, returned to the office, while Zacheus resumed his chair. “Maybe ten dollars is more’n Dot’ll think I or’to have giv,” he said, “but I have a hankerin’ after that cemetery. Johnny is buried there, you know.” “Who is Johnny?” Craig asked, struck with the pathos in Mr. Taylor’s voice and the inexpressibly sad expression of his face.