"No. Yes. Seems to me I do. What were they?"
"It was one day, under the trees in your grounds. I was in a confidential mood, I remember, and I was moved to tell them to you. They included a bicycle, a college course, and a successful career of authorship."
"I remember. You've two of them, Ted; and I believe you'll get the other."
"Wait till you come home. You may find me no nearer the end than I am now."
"I doubt it, Teddy. You've the stuff in you. Write and tell me, when you make your first hit."
"I will. I'm counting on your letters, Billy, for it's going to be very lonely without you." Her lip quivered again, and in the moonlight he saw an odd glitter in her eyes.
He took her hand in his.
"Ted," he said gently; "two years can't make any difference in such a friendship as ours. We've stuck together through thick and thin, and nothing can change us. Two years isn't a very long time to wait, and then, please God, I shall come home to you all, a strong man. After that, I shall never go away again—to leave you, dear."
The last words were almost inaudible. Then the silence and the moonlight closed in about them.
The chapel was filled to overflowing, the next day, as the procession filed up the middle aisle. Led by the white-gowned ushers, they came slowly onward, faculty and trustees, alumnæ and seniors, while above and around them, soft and full by turns, rose the sound of the organ under the masterly touch they knew so well. It was an hour when even the most heedless freshman felt the pain, the almost solemn sadness of the coming parting, yet the full meaning of the commencement day can be realized only by those who are leaving their Alma Mater for the last time.