“And suppose your method has done its work too well,” cried Fessenden, setting his jaw exactly as his father did while he listened to his angry son. “You know something of the results of your--your intrigue, but not all. You know that I have developed strength, power, but not how much. You see only the obstacles I have conquered; you know nothing of the ambition that discipline of yours has developed in me--the inspirations of lives of men of not dissimilar--so far as I knew--beginnings. And now! Good God, I feel like a mountebank!” “Answer this question, and not too hastily: Have I done you an injustice? Nothing could alter the fact that I was a rich man. Do you regret that I did not run the risk first of your becoming a sickly spoiled brat, then a dissipated fool? A few, a very few sons of rich men in this country have turned out passably well--never what their fathers were: circumstances did not compel them to or go to the wall; and I dared not tell you--the risk was too great. I could see no other way; and, looking back, I see none now.” Fessenden rose and mechanically started for the log in the grate, but it was June, and he kicked a stool instead. He was still seething; but even so, his sense of justice dominated his desire to indulge to the full his bitter indignation and disappointment. “No,” he said, after a moment, “you were right enough. Doubtless in time I shall be duly grateful to you. But that premonition does not mitigate in the faintest degree what I feel now.” His eyes met his father’s, which were full of affection and pride, and he suddenly descended a peg or two. “I don’t mind telling you, sir--I believe you will not laugh at me--but I felt--conceited ass that I was--that I was destined to become a great man. I felt it was in me to accomplish anything, be anything I set my brains upon. Of course it was all red blood--the result of precocious development in solitude, of the little successes which your watchful care enabled me to win; but the result was the same as if it had been the real thing. I feel like a peacock with its tail pulled out. And now please tell me what it has all been for. You say you need a strong man--is that necessary for the custody of millions? An ordinary sober honest hard-working agent could do as well, I should think; you must have some estimable relatives.”