tripped and hurt like all men; but he lived too much in imagination, in the future, and his application to study had been too severe for brooding on the shortcomings of the world. He still thought well of it, and his consistent admiration for his friend Keene had gone far to nurse his optimism. Life never did a kinder thing for him than in bestowing so abundant a measure of contentment in these last hours of his boyhood. He stood up in a moment, turning over his chair. Keene was lying on a divan, smoking. The lamp was low. The windows were open, but to silence only. It was very late. “Well--well--well--” said Fessenden. “I don’t know. I should have to tell you so much--and my ambitions are defined and at the same time rather nebulous. You see, I have to find out just what my father wants of me first--what he is--” “What he is? There is a mystery, then? You’ve bluffed us pretty well.” “I’m no maker of mysteries. I don’t know, myself--but--and you’re the only person living I’d say this to, and I’d break even your head if you gave a hint before he was ready--I think he is a great inventor and wanted me to have this training that I might help him.” It was on the tip of Keene’s tongue to remark upon the uselessness of Mr. Abbott’s secrecy so far as his son was concerned, but congratulated himself a few moments later that Fessenden had given him no time for comment. “I have not seen him for years, but not through lack of affection--he asked me to trust him and I have done so. I had a curious letter from him on Tuesday--I have thought a good deal about it since--and now that I am to see him and know all so soon, I may permit myself to indulge in curiosity. I’ll read it to you if you like.”