into the drawers of an old walnut cabinet in the study we should find
illuminative data touching the life of Andrew Kelton. It is well for us
to know that he was born in Indiana, as far as possible from salt water;
and that, after being graduated from Annapolis, he served his country
until retired for disabilities due to a wound received at Mobile Bay. He
thereafter became and continued for fifteen years the professor of
mathematics and astronomy at Madison College, in his native state; and
it is there that we find him, living peacefully with his granddaughter
Sylvia in the shadow of the college.

Comfort had set its seal everywhere, but it was keyed to male ideals of
ease and convenience; the thousand and one things in which women express
themselves were absent. The eye was everywhere struck by the strict
order of the immaculate small rooms and the snugness with which every
article had been fitted to its place. The professor's broad desk was
free of litter; his tobacco jar neighbored his inkstand on a clean,
fresh blotter. It is a bit significant that Sylvia, in putting down her
book to answer the bell, marked her place carefully with an envelope,
for Sylvia, we may say at once, was a young person disciplined to
careful habits.

"Is this Professor Kelton's? I should like very much to see him," said
the young man to whom she opened.

"I'm sorry, but he isn't at home," replied Sylvia, with that directness
which, we shall find, characterized her speech.

The visitor was neither a member of the faculty nor a student, and as
her grandfather was particularly wary of agents she was on guard against
the stranger.