Leon laughed; but even in the moonlight, the boys could see the quick color come into his cheeks, and his voice trembled a little with excitement, as he said,—
“You fellows all remember Captain Curtis, Lieutenant Wilde’s friend that was here in March. He knew daddy, and after daddy died, he wrote to us. I answered the letter, and since then he’s written to me three or four times. Last Saturday I had another letter from him, and he’s offered to get me in at West Point, when I’m old enough.”
“What!” And Max started up eagerly.
“Yes, isn’t it fine? He has a cousin that’s congressman from Pennsylvania, and their district will have a vacancy the summer after I’m seventeen. Captain Curtis says he can get me the appointment, if I want it. Daddy would have been willing, I know, so, if nothing happens, seven years from now, I shall be Lieutenant Arnold, of the United States Army. Don’t you all envy me, though?” And Leon smiled complacently around at the group.
“Just my luck!” sighed Max. “Another fellow is always sure to get the blessings I deserve. Why couldn’t Captain Curtis have taken a liking to me? Still, I’m no end glad you have it, Leon, for it’s just the thing for you.”
For an hour longer they sat there, now talking, now silently watching the moonlight as it lay caressingly over the doctor’s house, and over their little group as they lingered on the piazza, where they had so often sat before. It was far past their usual bed-time, yet no one of the boys made the move towards going into the house. The next morning would end it all, so why not prolong the evening as far as they might? But, little by little, the light talk of past frolics and future hopes and plans had died away, and they sat there quiet. Perhaps they were growing sleepy; perhaps they were thinking of the morrow, and of the days and years to come. Then, all at once, Leon’s clear, high soprano voice took up the air of one of the Harrow songs which Lieutenant Wilde had brought back to them after a vacation tour to England. It was a song that the boys knew and loved, both for itself, and for that vague feeling of romance which overhangs all that pertains to life at an English public school. Often and often had they sung it together, when driving, or rowing on the lake, or when, as now, they sat on the Old Flemming steps; but never had it meant to them all that it did to-night, on the eve of their parting. One after another, the boys joined in the chorus, until the sound swelled on and upward, as if to carry out to the waiting world their promise for their future lives:—
“Like an ancient river flowing
From the mountain to the sea,
So we follow, coming, going
To the wider life to be.