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As Fessenden left the train on Monday morning and walked down the long crowded platform to the gates, he was nervous and happy and sentimental, but full of vanity. Not as the prodigal son was he returning to his father after these long years of disunion. Had not a telegram from the president of his university acquainted Mr. Abbott with his son's brilliant climax? Was he not about to relieve his parent of all further worries and responsibilities, to say naught of shedding lustre upon the family name? He was sure that his father, if he had chosen obscurity for his own portion, must still be in a position to give him advice and immediate suggestion, of more value than gold.
He had arrayed himself in a new suit of summer gray, and with considerable satisfaction, for he had spasms of personal vanity, although only death could separate him permanently from the reprobates of his wardrobe. His long body was still very slight, but it was muscular and lithe. When his eyes were not hard or dreamy with concentrated thought they were ready to laugh their response into any friendly eyes they chanced to meet. Although as a rule he would have scorned to admit that he knew whether he was good-looking or not, he was in so gay a mood this fine summer morning that he frankly accepted admiring glances for what they were worth, and was glad to add such attractions as his ancestors had given him to the sum he was about to present to one doting parent.