There were offers enough of more salary and higher position
from those who came to know the agent, but he was part of Farley
itself, and had come to care deeply about his neighbors, while a
larger mill and salary were not exactly the things that could tempt
his ambition. It was but a lonely life for a man in the old agent's
quarters where one of the widows of the Corporation, a woman who had
been brought up in a gentleman's house in the old country, kept house
for him with a certain show of propriety. Ever since he was a boy his
room was never without its late evening light, and books and hard
study made his chief companionship.
As Mrs. Kilpatrick went home holding little Maggie by the hand that
windy noon, the agent was sitting in the company's counting-room with
one of the directors and largest stockholders, and they were just
ending a long talk about the mill affairs. The agent was about forty
years old now and looked fifty. He had a pleasant smile, but one saw
it rarely enough, and just now he looked more serious than usual.
"I am very glad to have had this long talk with you," said the old
director. "You do not think of any other recommendations to be made at
the meeting next week?"
The agent grew a trifle paler and glanced behind him to be sure that
the clerks had gone to dinner.
"Not in regard to details," he answered gravely. "There is one thing
which I see to be very important. You have seen the books, and are
clear that nine per cent.
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