“It could not have been Mr. Abbott,” said Morris soothingly, and taking his arm he hurried him through open gates. “It is doubtful if he is in New York, and he is not the man to do anything so silly and sentimental. He is very busy working out some idea which requires all his energies--he dares venture upon no distraction--there, I have told you that much--your unerring instinct has kept you from doubting that he loves you.” “Is he an inventor?” asked Fessenden eagerly. “Is that the mystery? Is that the reason he wants me to study all these new things--that I may be of use to him?” “Well, he is something of an inventor, and you certainly can be of great use to him--more than anybody on earth can be.” “Why didn’t you tell me that before? Now I have a double object. I’ll work like a logger. What’s his line?” Morris groaned; but as he disposed his hand-baggage neatly about him he had another inspiration. “All!” he announced. “That is to say, a combination of all this very modern university can teach you. The result may be extraordinary.” Fessenden fell back on his seat and stared out of the window, seeing nothing. His imagination was fired with the vision of his lonely potential devoted father experimenting in obscurity with a revolutionizing idea, whose bare elementary threads--awaiting himself in the Northwest--filled him with such excitement and exhilaration that he wanted to get out and race the train. Fortunately his deep emotions always rendered him speechless, and Morris was permitted to sleep peacefully during the greater part of the journey. XIII Although Morris had never reached the heart-strings of his pupil, the youth was his one human interest--his father was dead long since; and as Fessenden fully realized his debt of gratitude to the capable and conscientious tutor, as well as being a person in whom habit struck long roots, the parting was unexpectedly affecting. As Fessenden returned from the station of the little town of Turbine, where he was to spend the greater part of the next four years, he suddenly conceived a violent antipathy for his new surroundings, and a desire to flee back to his mountains. This flat interminable prairie, this cheap town, not an elevation in sight, much less the mountains which had gone far into the modelling of his nature--there was nothing here resembling the great world of which he had dreamed. He longed for real solitude, feeling for the first time the miserable substitute the crowd offers; and suddenly understood how much closer to the great realities of life it brings a man than any actual juxtaposition.