“Why,” cried Tom, “it is the Professor. See that he is shown up to me when he comes, won’t you?”
“Oh, certainly! I’ll attend to that,” said the doctor, and he rushed softly away.
Tom sat down by the side of the bed, and looked at his friend’s face. It had changed greatly, much more than his, since they left Cambridge. The forehead was marked now with heavy lines, and the full beard made it seem like the countenance of a man of forty. So old can even a boy grow in a year. Ned had trained himself, with great effort, to unquestioning obedience. His criticism had been only upon those to whom he gave his orders, and he had struggled not to form an opinion on those to whom his obedience was due; thus he had become an admirable officer. Tom sat there looking at Ned, and thinking, thinking, he could scarcely tell of what, until he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He turned and saw the Professor, and fairly hugged him in his delight.
“So I have found you at last, Tom,” said the Professor.
“Just think, sir,” said Tom; “it is a year now since I have seen you.”
“And the end seems as far off as ever,” said the Professor.
“Don’t say that,” said Tom, “because sometimes, you know, I have to try very hard not to think so myself.”
“Ah!” said the Professor, “you are still the same, I see, and I am the same; and Ned,—is this Ned?”