He held Mr. Abbott’s last letter to the lamp and read it aloud; then plunged his hands into his pockets, planted himself squarely on his feet, and told Keene of his peculiar relations with his father since his mother’s death. He made it all very vivid; the brief visits of Mr. Abbott, the concise pregnant conversations, the firm careful finger always modelling at the foundations of his character, the cleverness and foresight with which his father had secured the services of Stanley Morris, who through seven monotonous years had pined for California. Much of this was revealed unconsciously in the narrative of his mountain-life. While he was in the midst of his story Keene sat up suddenly; a moment later interrupted him to ask for a description of Mr. Abbott. Fessenden had answered: “Small, thin, but with an immense lot of presence--even up there where one man is exactly the same as another, where there is real equality and no bluff about it--they all bowed down to him instinctively--even Morris, who is a deep scholar and thinker and belongs to one of the best families in the country--if you care for that sort of American rot. Even when I was a little chap and he used to pet and fondle me, I could feel the power come out of him, and I told Morris once that if he wasn’t a rich man it must be his own fault--he made you feel he could be anything he chose. His face is beautiful to me, perhaps because I love him, for Morris remarked rather nastily once that he was not generally considered a beauty; but he has eyes that can light up, and his face always changed for me anyhow, if it did look rather cold--perhaps hard--at other times. Nettlebeck swore once that it was hard, but I never could see it. His features are well cut, too, his nose looks as if it could go through a stone wall, and there is not an indefinite curve in his mouth--there you have him, as well as I can describe anybody.” But Keene, long since, had rolled over and buried his face in the sofa cushions. The next day, as the two men parted at Chicago, Keene, who was far more mature than Fessenden, having less of the eternal boy in him, put his arm about his friend’s shoulder and said hesitatingly: “Remember--there are terrible disappointments awaiting you out here in the great world--as for all of us. Take everything that comes along as philosophically as you can--everything is for the best, I suppose. Above all, don’t let any shock embitter you. I am sure, I am sure that your father is all that you imagine him to be--that whatever he does in regard to you--has done--is right.... I wish he were not so poor, however; I wish he were _the_ Abbott.” “Who is _the_ Abbott?” “Of course you never read the newspapers, and it is odd how he manages to keep out of the illustrated magazines--I should think he must pay them. The Abbott, my dear boy, is richer than the whole Rothschild outfit condensed into the singular.”