It is yet rather early in the day to predict Eugene’s future, as he has only been a few months with the Hardys.
He is still a pale, elegant lad with courteous manners, and he enjoys to the full the country life that the Hardys are now living; for the aunt died soon after his return, and left to his adopted parents a comfortable house situated some miles out of Boston.
The sergeant has resigned from the police force, and the city cares for the cats; though every week the sergeant and Eugene ride in, the former on a stately chestnut horse, and the latter on a beautiful pony, to pay a visit to the park, where they are eagerly welcomed by the king and his subjects.
On these weekly visits Eugene often calls on the Mannings, and is rapturously welcomed by Virgie; but whether he goes there or not, he never fails to seek the spot where the bust of John Boyle O’Reilly looks toward the city. He always remains before it for a long time. His childish love for his emperor will never die away; but it is broadening now, and he is taking into his affections the heroes of his adopted country.
The sergeant invariably takes him a round of the public buildings and monuments of the city. Eugene’s face flashes as he follows the sergeant’s lead, and reins in his black pony near the colossal statue of Washington on his horse, or gazes at the noble, manly Lincoln standing over the freed slave. He loves also the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument on the Common, where his favorite figure is the Federal infantryman standing at ease.
The sergeant likes best the figure of peace on this monument,—the woman bearing the olive-branch, and having her eyes toward the South.
One day not long ago, when they were standing before this monument, Eugene said, “I may not be a soldier when I am grown up; but if this country should need me, I will serve it till I die.”
“That’s right,” observed the sergeant, “if you are a good honest citizen, respecting yourself and the rights of others, and trying to keep a clear record, you’ll be doing as good service in the world as if you were running about with a sword or a gun in your hand to pick a quarrel.”
“But suppose one just had to fight,” said the boy earnestly, “suppose one could not get out of it.”