the blackest kind of eyes, sunk so deep back that they seemed like they was looking out of caverns at you, as you may say.  His forehead was high, and his hair was black and straight and hung to his shoulders. His hands was long and thin, and every day of his life he put on a clean shirt and a full suit from head to foot made out of linen so white it hurt your eyes to look at it; and on Sundays he wore a blue tail-coat with brass buttons on it.  He carried a mahogany cane with a silver head to it.  There warn't no frivolishness about him, not a bit, and he warn't ever loud.  He was as kind as he could be--you could feel that, you know, and so you had confidence.  Sometimes he smiled, and it was good to see; but when he straightened himself up like a liberty-pole, and the lightning begun to flicker out from under his eyebrows, you wanted to climb a tree first, and find out what the matter was afterwards.  He didn't ever have to tell anybody to mind their manners--everybody was always good-mannered where he was.  Everybody loved to have him around, too; he was sunshine most always--I mean he made it seem like good weather.  When he turned into a cloudbank it was awful dark for half a minute, and that was enough; there wouldn't nothing go wrong again for a week. When him and the old lady come down in the morning all the family got up out of their chairs and give them good-day, and didn't set down again till they had set down.  Then Tom and Bob went to the sideboard where the decanter was, and mixed a glass of bitters and handed it to him, and he held it in his hand and waited till Tom's and Bob's was mixed, and then they bowed and said, “Our duty to you, sir, and madam;” and _they_ bowed the least bit in the world and said thank you, and so they drank, all three, and Bob and Tom poured a spoonful of water on the sugar and the mite of whisky or apple brandy in the bottom of their tumblers, and give it to me and Buck, and we drank to the old people too. Bob was the ol