XXXVIII
HIGH GROUND
But never sit we down and say,
"There's nothing left but sorrow."
We walk the Wilderness to-day,
The promised Land to-morrow. —Gerald Massey.
There was much wedging and crowding in the camp that night, lightened somewhat by the big hop which shortened the night for so many. Not for Magnus. He went to bed, thinking the night would be two nights long: quite sure he should not close his eyes.
But youth, and health, and the long journey, and even sorrow, quite upset his calculations. When the hop men turned in, Magnus hardly roused up enough to give a short answer to some details; and when the sharp voice of the reveille gun spoke in his ear, it was as clear a wake-up—and alas! as disgusted a one—as Cadet Kindred had ever known. But breaking camp at least would be welcome: hard work suited his mood just now much better than play.
Yet before the hour drew on, he strolled out towards the visitors' seats; the exquisite morning, the dainty wreaths of mist, and the sweet, pure air, making him so homesick that he craved even a chatter of tongues that should stop his thoughts.
The seats were a waving line of colour. Hats turned up, and hats turned down; bonnets too small to be seen, and hats like umbrellas; ribands, laces, streamers of every kind. Plenty of grey coats, too; first classmen and yearlings in their glory, with other disconsolate furlough men, searching the crowd for a friend, if possibly such a thing remained to them east of the Rockies, or north of Mason and Dixon's line. Everywhere a busy chatter, with introductions, greetings, inquiries, and much swinging of cadet caps. Sugar-plums abounded. On the grass a group of children sunned themselves in front of the grown-up people, sometimes aping their ways.
Magnus was taken possession of rapturously,—had to touch a half-dozen gloves in as many seconds.
"And where have you been all summer, Mr. Kindred?" Miss Fashion inquired in gracious tones.
"In a much better place than this old camp, Miss Fashion."