Fessenden, bewildered with the knowledge that he stood on the threshold of an unknown world which even now mocked his years of strenuous endeavor, resumed his chair mechanically and fixed his eyes on his father’s face that he might make sure he was hearing facts at least. The flattering attentions of the university guests suddenly arose in his memory, and he writhed in self-abasement. He felt the floor with the heel of his boot to ascertain if it were secure beneath his feet. “I suppose I had better begin at the beginning,” said Mr. Abbott. “I saw little of your mother after the first year of our marriage. She was born in the world of fashion, was a natural and determined leader; and shortly after your birth she entered upon a career of extravagance which has seldom been equalled even in this town. It was a matter of indifference to me how much money she spent so long as she was contented--she was badly spoiled--and as she was a beautiful and clever creature I was very proud of her; moreover, too busy to regret that she had so little time for me. Perhaps I should go back a step further here and tell you that my father was also a man of large wealth--for his day--and of great importance in the banking world. I was trained as his successor from my earliest years, and fortunately took to it naturally. In those days the sons of rich men were more serious than they are now; but I sowed a few wild oats before I settled down, and, being of a delicate constitution, they permanently impaired my health. This fact will enable you more readily to understand my course in regard to you. “But to return to your mother. Naturally she spoiled you--badly! You were never permitted to draw a breath of fresh air except in fine weather; you had whatever you cried for. There was every prospect that you would grow up--if you survived childhood--the average nervous dyspeptic American--worse still, the average worthless rich man’s son. The day after her death, as I sat alone here in this room, with you playing on the hearth-rug, I had an inspiration, and determined at once to act upon it. I had known the Nettlebecks for many years; I was in the habit of going into camp with several of my friends not far from their farm. Only Fritz, who acted as our guide, knew that I was a rich man, and I knew his capacity for silence. I had a sudden vision of all you might become in that magnificent air, raised by frugal but well-living Germans, who would obey my orders to the letter--removed from all the debilitating influences and the temptations of wealth--well! I did not wait to communicate with Nettlebeck. I whisked you off the day after the funeral, and without warning to grandmothers and aunts. I made Nettlebeck an offer which he accepted promptly, swore him to secrecy, and left you in that wilderness as elated as if I had scooped up Wall Street, hard as it was to leave you. Later came the fortunate episode of my conversation with Stanley Morris’s father--”