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.
"It is important for me to see him.