“Did I not? I should have thought I must have mentioned it. She was born when your mother died, and her name is Alexandra. Do not interrupt me again, and listen attentively. I wish you, as I have just said, to grow up with the clearly defined idea that you must make your own way in the world, make every dollar you spend, owe your position, and the respect you may be able to inspire, to your personality--to the dignity of your character and the brilliancy of your mind. I shall keep you here until you are ready for college, where I hope to be able to send you; for, unlike many Americans, I believe in educating a man like a gentleman. I have just met with a piece of extraordinary good fortune: the other day an old friend called on me for the first time in many years; he told me that his son, a Harvard man, and a profound student, was so delicate that he might be obliged to spend the remainder of his life in the high altitudes. I called on the young man immediately--his name is Stanley Morris--and persuaded him to come here, for I realized what such companionship would mean to my bright little son. He was very glad of the suggestion, and agreed, for the sake of a small annual sum, to become your teacher--in time to prepare you for college. It was a great relief to my mind, for I want you to remain in this healthy mountain region until you are grown, and, of course, expensive tutors and schools are out of the question. He will be able to teach you German and French among other things, and he has a large library. Therefore, I shall not send you any more books. Fortunately you need only these rough clothes up here. I feel quite confident that I shall be able to afford the small yearly sum Mr. Morris demands. But you are never to forget that you are studying for equipment, not as the mere routine of youth. Do you understand?” “Yes, sir.” Fessenden was deeply impressed, but longing, nevertheless, to get away from the stove and steer the conversation to lighter topics. His young brain felt as if it had been hammered. “Couldn’t you send my sister up here?” he asked. “No; you will have little in common till you are grown. You would act detrimentally upon each other. Girls have such a different part to play in life,” he concluded, somewhat vaguely. “I’d like her picture.” “I will send it to you, but you are to promise me first that you will not write to her. I want no sentimental nonsense.” “I hate to write letters, so I don’t mind promising.” There was a long silence during which Mr. Abbott dreamed and Fessenden squirmed. “Are you a success, father, or a failure?” Mr. Abbott jumped. “I?--well--I will let you judge of that for yourself when you are grown.” “Do you keep a grocery store?--or teach school?--or write books?” “No,” Mr. Abbott laughed. “But I get my humble living honestly. I am a lawyer by profession.” “What is a lawyer?”