"Just to put off mother and her little trunk!" thought Magnus, laughing to himself, and then getting such dim eyes that he could not see a thing. But he felt as if he could hug even the trunk.
And now, puff, puff, the train slowly moved away from the station, and the little ferryboat rang her bell. Of course, his mother was there, in the small, dark throng that came down to the river, and of course he must therefore really see her, but—Oh! it was too tantalising! I think at that minute Magnus would have given anything (except furlough) for a good glass.
The boat was off, steering across the river in a pretty curve to suit the tide; the smooth water turning back in two long lines of wrinkles in her wake.
Magnus leaped down from the parapet and was speeding away up the path at a great rate when there came a hail:
"Mr. Kin—dred!"
Magnus paused to see.
Clustered about the pathetic white column that looking calmly down on the silent river, tells in such vivid fashion its terrible tale of struggle and death, were three or four very summery looking girls: Miss Fashion, Miss Dangleum, and another whom Magnus did not know.
"Do come here, Mr. Kindred," pleaded Miss Dangleum.
Well, a cadet is nothing if he is not a squire of distressed damsels. Magnus turned and jumped down to where they stood.
"What's the matter?" he said; "has a fan gone down the hill? or is a parasol in trouble?"