“‘Wind of the summer night.’”
“Boo-o!” shivered Dorothy, as the incongruity between the words and the frost which was nipping her bare, cold feet, flashed into her brain. “That must be the only serenade he knows, or else they never have cold nights down south. But what’s the matter?”
A sudden sound like splashing water had succeeded an abrupt pause in the serenade, and the next moment, the air below was thick with flying snowballs that dashed against the singer’s back and shoulders, covering him from head to foot with a soft, light powder. However, he stood his ground valiantly, and with one proud glance towards the spot where he supposed his unseen enemies to be, he strummed another short interlude, and began on the last verse,—
“‘Mo-o-on of the su-ummer night.’”
But a carefully-aimed ball, which struck the back of his neck, just above his upturned collar, was followed by a second volley so determined that the cavalier took to his heels, regardless of his lady, who stood peeping between the curtains and laughing at the fate of her tuneful guest. She watched him until he had vanished in the darkness, and then was about to creep back into bed again, when her quick ear caught a crunching of the snow beneath, and in a moment more, she saw four figures standing under her window, in place of the one who had gone. A second glance told her that the shortest of the group was leaning on crutches, and that the tallest had in his buttonhole a flower singularly like the carnations she had worn in her belt, that evening. Then they began to sing; but before she had time to recognize her brother’s clear, high voice, and the deep bass notes of Alex, it had dawned upon her that the Flemming quartette had come to serenade her and, finding someone else upon the scene before them, had taken the quickest and surest means of driving away the intruder.
“‘Good night, good night, beloved!
I come to watch o’er thee,’”
They were singing; and in spite of the beauty of the familiar strains, Dorothy smiled to herself, as she thought of the undercurrent of meaning which lay beneath the words. She knew that neither of her brothers approved of Osborn’s evident admiration for her, and were probably exulting in this opportunity to drive their unsuccessful rival from the field.
As the last words died away upon the still night air, she hastily snatched from a vase near by, the flowers she had been wearing, softly opened her window and, with one quick sweep of her arm, dropped them directly at the feet of the tallest singer. He stooped a moment to gather them up from the snow, then bowed low in acknowledgment, as the four voices took up the sadder, sweeter melody of the “Soldier’s Farewell.”
That was all: only a school-boy frolic, and three, at least, of the singers had no more thought of sentiment than they would have done in listening to the band on parade. But if it were all child’s play, why did Dorothy’s fair face grow suddenly wistful, under cover of the darkness, as she watched them move away down the road; and why was she conscious of her heart’s giving a quick throb of pleasure, when she saw the tallest cadet slacken his pace and stretch out a hand to help support his shorter comrade, as he limped slowly along over the slippery crust? What a true knight he was, she said to herself; and then felt the hot blood rush to her cheeks, at the thought of that unqualified pronoun, “He.”