“We live so far away,” she lamented on the last morning. “It takes so long for letters to go and come. I can’t help feeling that you’ll be less and less my boy, David, dear.”
He scoffed at her, but nevertheless her words struck home to a tender spot. Of course he would never grow away from her in his heart, but he realized that he would be away from her more and more continuously as the years went on, and with a pang of shame he suddenly knew that the separation would mean more to her than to him. He determined then and there that he would try his best to make up to her through his letters for the loss that she must always feel, to convince her that she always had his confidence as well as his love. And during the next year he fulfilled faithfully that resolve. It was a busy year, for besides doing his own work he had to give a good deal of help to Mr. Dean; moreover, as a sixth-former he had responsibilities and offices that demanded a considerable amount of attention; his athletic avocations, in which he had a gratifying success, were numerous. But the more he had to do the more he found to write home about and the gayer and cheerier was the spirit of what he wrote. It pleased him when in the short vacations at Christmas and Easter his mother said: “I can hear you in your letters, David. You write me such good letters!”
Between Mr. Dean, dependent on David in so many little matters, and David, dependent on Mr. Dean in one large affair, the friendship grew stronger and closer. The boy admired the man for his learning, his kindness, his courtesy, and most of all for his courage; David wondered how any one stricken with such an affliction could make so little of it. And the man liked the boy for his responsiveness and for a certain stanch and honest quality that could not fail to impress even one who was blind. So the association was a happy one—so happy that the masters commented upon it among themselves and wondered how Mr. Dean would manage the next year; he seemed to have nobody in training to take David’s place. David himself often wondered about it, but refrained from asking any questions; and Mr. Dean kept his own counsel, kept it, indeed, until one evening two weeks before the end of the school year, the evening of the day on which St. Timothy’s had again met St. John’s upon the ball field and been victorious. The members of the nine had been cheered at the bonfire built in their honor, Lester Wallace, the captain, had made a little speech, and then David had slipped away to go to his room. But as he passed the open door of Mr. Dean’s study the master called him.
“A great celebration, David?”
“Yes, pretty fine.” David came in and described the scene round the bonfire.
Mr. Dean smiled. “Yes, I could hear the cheering. It was a great game! I wish I could have really seen it! And you played well at second base?”
“I managed to pull through without any errors. But Lester was a wonder at first—just like lightning!”
“You and he seemed to develop some fine team play together. And not just on the ball field, either. You have shown good team play in everything this year. At Harvard next year I hope it will continue; there will be just as many opportunities for it.” Mr. Dean hesitated a moment and then said, with a shade of diffidence and embarrassment, “And I think our team play has been pretty good, David, don’t you?”
“Yours has been splendid, Mr. Dean.”
“You’ve done your share, David. So well that I don’t know how I shall get on without you. In fact, I don’t want to get on without you.”