Mr. Abbott opened the door of the stove and poked the fire. Its red glow was reflected in his face, usually the hue of leather. “I cannot say that the rich have interfered with me,” he replied, after a considerable pause. “I have chosen my own course, and have felt justified in pursuing it. Don’t believe all this twaddle about the rich, my son. It is their enterprise that has made this country great, not the growling of the failures. It is they who encourage and promote industries, whether their employees like their manner of doing it or not. It is they who make the money circulate, find employment for millions, keep the fires crackling under the great boiling caldron. Moreover, most of them have risen from the ranks of these grumblers--who, one and all, dream of reaching their altitude and having their chance to dictate to those still below. Never forget that point. Every working-man on strike is a potential millionaire--in fact as well as in fancy--for this country offers equal chances to all. It is the brains of the men that are not equal; and every millionaire has only himself--in rare instances his immediate forebears--to thank that he is not still grovelling with the herd, close to the wall.” “Then of course the millionaires have the really great minds nowadays. Having done such wonderful things, I should think they would feel as if all the rest of the world were their children.” “H’m! My son, I think it is time for you to go to bed.” VIII Fessenden, until his Great Love Affair, which occurred when he had rounded his seventeenth year, lived in his books and the future, finding less and less companionship in his now humble and devoted band of followers. This interval of four years was pricked out by two variations only: the gradually discontinuing visits of his father and the slight change incident upon a letter received from Mr. Abbott on his son’s fifteenth birthday: “MY DEAR BOY”--(this letter began, in the well-bred but curiously unexercised handwriting which sometimes made Fessenden wonder if his father never wrote to any one else)--“It may be some time, perhaps years, before we meet again. I shall give you no reason now for this additional separation, so painful to me. When the time comes I shall explain, and you will find the explanation satisfactory. Meanwhile, I shall write to you twice a year, remind you of all the advice and admonition I have given you, and ask many questions. I am very much gratified with Mr. Morris’s accounts of you. It is in your blood to take naturally to books. I hope and pray that other things may come as readily to you in due course.