The letter which he had received was a simple invitation to call, signed by the banker himself.

 

"Is Mr. Rockwell in?" he asked.

 

"Yes," said the clerk smiling pleasantly, for Mark was a favorite in the office.

 

Mark went over to the open door, and stood on the threshold with his hat in his hand.

 

The banker looked up.

 

"Oh, it is my young friend the messenger boy!" he said cordially, holding out his hand.

 

"I hope you are quite recovered, sir," said Mark respectfully.

 

"Yes, I believe so. The visit of our dynamite¹ friend was quite a shock to me, and at my age it takes longer to recover from the effects of such an incident than at yours. You must not think that I have forgotten what a service you rendered me."

 

"I am very glad to have done you a service, sir, but I am afraid I must confess that I was thinking partly of myself."

 

"I don't think any the less of you for your frankness. Still I am sensible that your promptness and presence of mind saved me from a terrible death—I feel that I ought to do something to show my gratitude²."

 

"You have already repaid me, sir, by your kind words."

 

"Kind words are well enough, but they are not practical. I should like to take you into my employ but I have no vacancy³, and I do not like to discharge any of my old and trusted employees."

 

"I should not be willing to displace any of them, sir."

 

"But there may be another way. Are your parents living?"

 

"My mother is living, and I have a little sister."

 

"And I suppose they are dependent upon you partly for support."

 

"Yes, sir."

 

"Probably you are poor?"

 

"Yes, sir; our means are very limited."

 

"So I suppose. What is your name?"

 

"Mark Mason."

 

Mr. Rockwell turned to his desk, and opening his check book,

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