On a conservative estimate he could not have cost my grandfather much,
if anything, over a hundred dollars a year. On this basis I could, on my
present income, send seven hundred and fifty fathers to college
annually! A curious thought, is it not?

Undoubtedly my grandfather went barefoot and trudged many a weary mile,
winter and summer, to and from the district school. He worked his way
through college. He married and reared a family. He educated my father.
He watched over his flock in sickness and in health, and he died at a
ripe old age, mourned by the entire countryside.

My father, in his turn, was obliged to carve out his own fate. He left
the old home, moved to the town where I was born, and by untiring
industry built up a law practice which for those days was astonishingly
lucrative. Then, as I have said, the war broke out and, enlisting as a
matter of course, he met death on the battlefield. During his
comparatively short life he followed the frugal habits acquired in his
youth. He was a simple man.

Yet I am his son! What would he say could he see my valet, my butler, my
French cook? Would he admire and appreciate my paintings, my _objets
d'art,_ my rugs and tapestries, my rare old furniture? As an intelligent
man he would undoubtedly have the good taste to realize their value and
take satisfaction in their beauty; but would he be glad that I possessed
them? That is a question. Until I began to pen these confessions I
should have unhesitatingly answered it in the affirmative. Now I am
inclined to wonder a little. I think it would depend on how far he
believed that my treasures indicated on my own part a genuine love of
art, and how far they were but the evidences of pomp and vainglory.