“‘She sleeps, she sle-eps, my la-a-ady sle-e-eps.’”

But my lady was not sleeping; quite the reverse. After the excitement of an evening spent in her brothers’ room, Dorothy was still lying awake, thinking over the events of the day, when the boyish voice fell upon her ears. Rising cautiously, so as not to disturb her sleeping mother, she threw a heavy shawl across her shoulders and stole noiselessly across the room to the window. There was no moon, but the white snow below and the clear stars above made it easy for her to distinguish the scene before her. But for once, Dorothy’s eyes were heedless of the long lines of hill and valley, as she bent forward to peer down on the lawn below. It was a most romantic-looking figure who stood there, banjo in hand; and though the voice was quite unfamiliar, Dorothy was sure she could recognize the dark, oval face and flashing eyes raised towards her window as, after a short interlude, the singer went on,—

“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,—

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.

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.”

True to their promise made to Leon in the holidays, Mrs. Arnold and Dorothy had come up to Hilton for a week, and Dorothy was holding high carnival among the cadets. Captivated from the first by her pretty face and dainty gowns, the boys had besieged Harry with requests for introductions; and the acquaintance, once begun, was followed up eagerly, as they came to know more of her. Her frank liking for them all, and her evident enjoyment of the little entertainments they prepared for her, quite won their hearts, and Dorothy soon had the Wilders at her feet, while Frank Osborn, to Harry’s great disgust, insisted upon lavishing on her the countless little attentions, which he knew so well how to render acceptable to a young and charming girl.

Mrs. Arnold was a model chaperon, and Dorothy enjoyed the week to the utmost, entering into all the frolics with a heartiness which was, however, never quite so apparent as when Alex was included in them. There were grand coasting parties in the clear, cold starlight, when Mrs. Flemming and Mrs. Arnold were each the centre of a little group whose members had been too late to carry off Dorothy instead; there were long hours of skating, on the little pond at the foot of the hill; there was the daily expedition to the armory with Leon, to watch the drill which was now in charge of Adjutant Sterne, while Lieutenant Wilde was still confined to the house, as a result of his accident; and there were impromptu spreads and euchre parties in the different rooms, after evening study-hour. Day by day, Harry was becoming more and more proud of his sister, while Alex and Paul and Louis and Jack and a dozen more were eagerly contending for her smiles.

The last evening of the visit was to be given up to a dinner at the doctor’s, although Mrs. Flemming had said, rather apologetically, as she invited her guests,—

“I’m afraid we’re hardly in good order for company. My nephew will be able to be down-stairs, but he doesn’t sit up much yet. Still, if you can excuse his lack of manners, we shall all enjoy your being with us.”

It was a pleasant, informal evening, and when Harry, and Alex came to take the guests home, they found Dorothy sitting by the sofa, chattering gayly with Lieutenant Wilde, who looked very handsome and manly, in spite of his undress uniform, and a most undignified strip of plaster running down his left cheek. It was the first time the boys had seen him since his accident and, made to feel at home by Mrs. Flemming’s cordial welcome, and her assurances that it was too early for her company to break up, they established themselves by the sofa, full of boyish solicitude for his health, and eager questions as to his getting out among them again.

Quite too soon the evening was over, and Dorothy found herself bidding her hostess good night, then going out into the clear, frosty air, with Alex at her side. They walked on in silence for a little way, then Dorothy said enthusiastically,—

“Such a pleasant evening! It has been a fit ending to our visit here.”

“How did you like Lieutenant Wilde?” asked Alex. “Had you seen him before to-night?”

“No; this was my first glimpse of him, and I don’t wonder that he’s Hal’s hero. He’s every inch a man and a soldier. But do you know, Mr. Sterne,” she added, with a laugh, “I’ve become so used to uniforms, since I came up here, that I shall find it very hard to see nothing but plain black coats, when I go home. You’ve all done so much to make me have a good time, that you have quite spoiled me.”

“We have the worst of it,” Alex assured her. “We have to settle down now for two months of steady grind, without the prospect of seeing a soul outside the school, till the Easter holidays. Your being here has been a perfect blessing to us; I only wish it hadn’t been quite so short.”

“I’m glad it seems short to you,” she answered frankly. “It has been delightful, every moment of it; but I began to be afraid that Hal’s friends would be heartily tired of entertaining me. You’ve certainly done it right royally, and I wish I didn’t have to leave Hilton in the morning.”

There was another little pause. Then she added, as they drew near the gate where Harry and his mother stood waiting for them,—

“One more word I want to say, Mr. Sterne, before we say good night and good by. Leon has told me, and I have seen how kind you have been to him, since he hurt his foot. Let me thank you for it all, please, and say how we appreciate it.” And she put out her hand impulsively.

Alex raised his cap, as he bent over the little hand.

“It was nothing,” he answered simply. “I was glad to do it for him—and for you.” And as he walked back to Old Flemming, he was conscious that the coming weeks would seem long and lonely to him, after the happiness of the last one; and he found himself looking forward to June and Commencement with an interest hitherto unknown.

It had been hard work for the Wilders to settle down to routine again, the day after the Arnolds went home; and, as Alex had said, they had two months of uninterrupted work before them. The new term was, by this time, well on in its course, and the day was fast approaching when Leon was to be allowed to give up his crutches and to use his foot again, though with a little care at first. While athletics were out of the question for the present, it would be such a delight to be able to walk again, that he accepted the rest without a thought of complaint. Lieutenant Wilde, too, had quickly recovered from his injuries and resumed his usual place in the school where he was more than ever idolized by his boys, who knew how near they had come to losing him.

In the meantime, January had drawn to a close, and Leon’s birthday had come. The Wilders, with whom he was a general favorite, had put their heads together to make the day merry enough to atone for any good times he might have lost, as a result of his sprain, and with Alex and Max at their head, the boys had not been slow to plan the jokes and surprises which kept appearing from early morning until late at night. A long drive with the doctor kept Leon out of the way during the whole afternoon; and while he was gone, the lads busied themselves in making ready for the spread which was to be the grand climax of the day. The village store and the local bakery—pie-foundry, as Max called it—had been ransacked, and the servants had received a generous bribe to do a little extra cooking, when, as if in furtherance of their plans, a huge box had arrived from home, and Harry had unpacked a tempting array of goodies, in the midst of the admiring plaudits of the boys.

As seven o’clock struck, Harry appeared at Lieutenant Wilde’s door, to escort his brother to his room, for Leon had not been allowed to return there, after his drive in the afternoon. With due ceremony, he was marched down the hall, between his brother and Lieutenant Wilde, and ushered into the room which was strangely transformed for the reception. The beds had been taken down and piled into Louis’s room across the hall, while additional tables had been brought in and arranged in a row, to form one long one, which was literally covered with the feast that the lads had collected, to do honor to the occasion.

As Leon came inside the door, his guests rose to welcome him, and here the surprise was perfect; for instead of the usual unbroken array of gray uniforms, there were several fine ladies present to grace the feast. This idea had come from Max, who had spent much time and shown considerable ingenuity in devising the costumes from the material at hand. A short curly bang, a great bath-sponge fastened to the top of his head, eyeglasses and a sheet gracefully draped into a robe and enlivened with a crimson portiÈre, by way of court train, transformed Miss Margaret Eliot, as she was introduced, into a very fair type of society girl; while Harold King’s delicate face and slight figure were set off by a red tablespread for a skirt, surmounted by a pale blue dressing-gown belonging to Louis. Louis himself appeared in a trailing blue gown, garnished with as many watch chains and scarf pins as the entire force of the Wilders could afford, while a stuffed owl adorned one shoulder, a huge bunch of red paper roses rested on the other, and his head was covered with Dame Pinney’s second-best cap which Max had in some way managed to coax her into lending. Stanley Campbell’s freckled face and short, straight brown hair were unmistakably boyish; but Max had done his best to disguise the work of nature with a dark green skirt whose cambric breadths were insecurely basted together with long white stitches, a gay orange and blue blazer and a broad straw hat, from which waved a garland of peacock feathers. However gorgeous was the result, when Max had added the finishing touches to his work, he had been moved to confess that Stanley looked far more like an Indian on the war-path, than the pretty girl for whom he was intended. But proud as the boys were of their own costumes, one and all agreed that Baby was the real success of the evening. Jack Howard’s long white cotton gown was tied in at the waist by a broad blue cambric sash, blue bows fluttered airily on his shoulders where a wide hem and the letters F. H. in indelible ink made their appearance, and a blue band caught together the long golden curls of a wig that Lieutenant Wilde had worn in some West Point theatricals.

“The gentlemen will please escort the ladies to the table,” called Harry, who had been chosen floor-manager of the occasion. “The hero of the evening can have first choice.”

Leon advanced a step, and appeared to be hesitating between the overgrown infant and the jewelled Louisa, when Stanley’s wonderful headgear caught his eye.

“Thanks, I’ll take Lo,” said he, bowing before the appalling vision.

“Very well, take your places,” commanded Harry, pointing to the head of the table; “and don’t forget to look out for the leg of that end table, because it’s ricketty. Lieutenant Wilde, it’s your turn next.”

Lieutenant Wilde chose Max, and the others paired off in turn, until they were all seated at the table. It was a wildly hilarious party, and in spite of wooden plates, paper napkins and no serving, they enjoyed their supper as only hungry, healthy boys can do, though the maidens present were by no means left behind. And while the knives and forks were busy, the tongues kept pace with them, and the jokes flew up and down the room till the walls echoed with the laughter, and the boys in the farthest corner of the house wondered enviously “what on earth the Wilders are at.”

“My dear,” Dr. Flemming had said to his wife, that evening, “if you have nothing else to do, suppose we go up to see Irving to-night. We haven’t been up there since he went back.”

Mrs. Flemming agreed and, at a little before eight o’clock, the doctor and his wife climbed the stairs of Old Flemming, and knocked at their nephew’s door. All was dark within, but on the door was a card: “In Number Fifteen.” The doctor read it.

“Fifteen? Let me see, that is the Arnolds’ room.”

“How good of Irving to go in there!” said Mrs. Flemming. “I suppose he was afraid that Leon would have a dull evening for his birthday, and has gone in to stay with him for a while.”

“Leon has had rather a bad time this winter,” answered the doctor; “worse than any of us know, I fancy, for he has taken it so as a matter of course, that he hasn’t had half the sympathy he has deserved. Well, as long as Irving isn’t here, I suppose we may as well go home again.”

“Let’s go in to see Leon for a few minutes,” suggested Mrs. Flemming. “He would be so pleased to have you call on him, and now we are here, we can do it as well as not.”

As they approached the door of number fifteen, they heard a burst of laughter from inside. Mrs. Flemming laughed too.

“Evidently he isn’t having a very dismal evening,” she said. “What can they be doing in there?”

“That remains to be seen,” said the doctor, as his knock interrupted a fresh shout.

There was a chorus of “come in” from several voices, and the doctor, throwing the door wide open, appeared on the threshold, with Mrs. Flemming at his side. There was an instant of perfect silence, while the astonished boys gazed at the doctor who was no frequent visitor in their rooms, and the doctor’s eyes roved from the loaded table to the remarkable guests who were seated about it. However, before the pause had lasted long enough to be embarrassing, Harry came to his senses and, shaking his head at Stanley, who was plucking wildly at his feathers without being able to remove them, he sprang up, went to the door and invited the unexpected guests to come in and have a share in the feast. The doctor accepted, with a manifest enjoyment of the fun, and while his wife was laying aside her wraps, two more chairs were brought in, and Harry led Mrs. Flemming to the table, as Jack rose and offered his arm to the doctor. If the fun had been great before, it was perfect and complete now, for the Flemmings entered into the frolic as heartily as did their young hosts, tasting all the goodies and laughing at all the jokes with as much enthusiasm as if they had been fourteen, instead of forty. They had not spent twelve years in work among boys to no purpose, and they understood just how to meet them on their own ground without loss of dignity or lessening of influence. Suddenly the doctor rose to his feet, with a glass of lemonade in his hand.

“I call on you all to drink a toast with me,” he said; “in honor of one of our boys who, although almost the youngest present, has yet shown himself a true knight and soldier, by his patience in bearing a trouble that would have made too many of us fretful and unhappy. I drink to the health and happiness of the guest of the evening, Leon Arnold.”

A wild burst of applause and a clinking of glasses followed the toast. Then came the cry,—

“Speech! Speech!”

But, for a moment, Leon was speechless. The unexpected praise from the doctor had touched him keenly, and brought the hot blood to his cheeks and a lump into his throat. However, the boys were determined to have a response from him, so he controlled himself with an effort, stood up and began falteringly,—

“I thank you all for the spread, and for the toast, and for making my birthday such a jolly one that I shall always remember it. You’ve all been so good to me, since I sprained my ankle, that I haven’t minded it much, now honestly, and—and—and—” Leon hesitated for a minute, in the hope of further inspiration; then added desperately, “and please take some more grub.”

It was scarcely the ordinary form for an after-dinner speech; but it was sincere enough to make up for any other faults, and the boys received it with acclamation, while Mrs. Flemming said to Harry, as she helped herself to another piece of the birthday cake,—

“What a pity your mother and Miss Dorothy couldn’t have been here! But tell me, where did you ever get such wonderful costumes for your young women?”

Harry laughed.

“You’ll have to ask Max about that,” he answered. “He’s taken possession of everything he could lay his hands on, from the sheets off his bed to the dame’s cap. He’s made us some pretty fair-looking girls, though,” he added, glancing complacently at Max who was coquetting with Lieutenant Wilde, quite regardless of the fact that his top-knot had fallen off on the floor, back of his chair.

Just then the doctor leaned forward as if to say something, and there came a pause.

“Speech, sir?” inquired the irrepressible Max, turning his eyeglass on him.

The doctor laughed.

“Not exactly a speech, Max. I only want to say, before I go, how much I have enjoyed my evening. And now, as long as I don’t often see all the Wilders, as the boys call you, together, I’m going to take just a minute to talk to you. Some of you only have a few months more to stay here, and then your days at Flemming will be ended. I dread the changes as they come, for not even twelve years of teaching have hardened me to having one class after another go away from me. You know you are all my boys, and wherever you go in the future, whatever you do, you will still be ‘the boys’ to me, no matter how old and gray, or how famous and renowned you may become. And so I want my boys to always be as true and pure and high in their aims, as honorable in their every-day lives as they are to-day. I have been looking around at you since I have been sitting here, and I am proud and glad to see that every one of you looks me squarely in the eye, and holds up his head like a man and a soldier. It’s not a bad test for a boy, after all; and I’ve watched you closely enough to know that I am not deceived in it. So remember, whether you go away from Flemming this year or next, while you are here and after you have left us, make up your minds to live so that I can be proud of you; so that you are doing honor to the old school; and, above all, so that you may never shrink from looking your mothers and sisters and, some day, perhaps, your wives too, straight in the eye when you meet them. Then I shall know that I made no mistake when I gave my boys the uniforms of soldiers, for a soldier’s first duty is to be true, true to himself and to his Maker. That’s enough sermonizing to-night; but I am so happy in my boys now, that I must never be disappointed in them in the future.”

As the doctor paused, Max impetuously sprang up, waving his glass of lemonade with such recklessness that he splashed it in a sticky tide down over Lieutenant Wilde’s forehead and glasses.

“I say, boys,” he cried; “here’s three cheers for the doctor and his wife, and may they live long enough to teach school till there isn’t a boy left in the country!”

“That’s hard on you, uncle,” called Lieutenant Wilde, across the table. “Are you going to kill them all off as you go along?”

In the jesting that followed, the doctor and his wife took their departure, leaving the boys to prolong the fun until “lights out” put an end to Leon’s birthday spread.

And when they did go to bed that night, there was not one of them but lay awake for a few moments, thinking over the little talk the doctor had given them, and resolving, in his boyish heart, to be worthy the trust a good man placed in them, worthy to be an honored son of Flemming Hall.