Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes, they were men that stood alone. —James Russell Lowell.

Cold weather came early. Mrs. Newcomb's picnic was the last of the season, and most of the human birds of passage grew chilly, and took their bright plumage back to city streets. A few visitors lingered on; people with no children to put to school, or with some son or brother in the Corps.

Only the steadfast old hills flung out their hardy colours—and flung them off; decking themselves with an occasional white cap instead. The blue river rolled by in deep foamy wrinkles; the distant Catskills had donned their snow.

No parades now, but noisy drills, with light battery, siege battery, and sea-coast guns, making the hills roar out in countless echoes. Only Battery Knox lay quiet, unmoved in all the commotion, keeping silent watch near the white shaft of "Dade and his Command." While far away beyond the hubbub, a small army of white and grey and brown stones told of other soldiers, who had fought their last battle, and answered to the last command. Very little told there, indeed, but of the soldier; the man almost left out. But on one old, old stone are words to make one's heart leap up for joy:

"He that doeth the will of God, abideth forever."

October ran its bright course, and the shorter, darker days of November came softly in, but very fair, even yet. The hills set forth their rocky heights and fastnesses, stripped now of the softening leaves, and still the cold grey of the stone was warmed and clouded with the wilderness of brown tree stems. And every here and there rose up a tall hemlock or cedar or pine, in its dark, dauntless green, while not a few red oaks still sported the tatters of their autumn flags. Along the river on the lower ground, black alder bushes showed a wealth of "winter berries," beautiful as coral beads, and a close match in colour.

Drills ceased, and dress parade began; and in the dusky time between gunfire and supper the men had chance for a good constitutional upon the well-swept sidewalk of the officers' row. Wrapped in long grey fearnaughts, with steady, swinging step, they went up and down, in ones and twos and threes, almost like an open procession; talking, talking, and discussing. Now the last blunder of the "Com.," now the latest whim of the "Supe"; then the marks of the day. Here, consigning all tactical officers to the prompt dealing of a drumhead court-martial, and here busy with the charms of some fair new girl. Oftenest of all, perhaps, dwelling on Graduation, Furlough, and First-class camp.

But you never saw them walk arm in arm, like other students,—this would strike any stranger. Close together, but both hands free. Perhaps the regulation salute, with its frequent, instant, and exact demands, may be partly the cause of this.

A fellow once hastening over to the hop with a girl on one arm, and her shoes and fan laying claim to the other, passed a certain dignitary with only a bow of the head, and was of course reported.

Going next day to explain and get the report off, he was told:

"Drop the girl! Drop the shoes! Salute, salute!"

Another feature of West Point life which I think would strike unwonted eyes, is the universal opening of front doors at four o'clock. Up to that time, after the midday refection of whatever name, West Point on the plain might be a city asleep, with slow pacing sentries guarding its slumbers. But when the sweet four o'clock bugle sounds out, waking the echoes and the antagonistic dogs, the houses wake up too. Bonnets go on, gloves slide into place, and the fair wearers come forth with a delightful sense of expecting or being expected (for both things are in place), and the thinnest veil of unconcern to hide it all. It is a very pretty scene.

Officers and professors come hastening back from the section room, gay turnouts wheel hither and thither, and the cadets are presently out in force. For drill, for parade, for walks, according to the time of year and the state of the weather. Football was not yet the rage, in Magnus Kindred's time, nor bicycles; and so every man you met was practising the noble art of walking, or showing how splendidly West Point can ride.

As November speeded away, Christmas leave began to rise up in the distance, and to claim many thoughts. Men who had lost it were down on their "luck" (the cadet spelling for carelessness), men who had won it debated in what way the few dear hours of freedom should be spent; and many a fellow from some far-down or far-off corner of the land stood pledged to go with his happier friend whose home was nearer by.

In all these joys, as usual, the poor fourth classmen had no share. They walked, indeed, like the rest; one must do something; but they talked gloomy things. No Christmas leave for them—and not much of anything else but hard work. They were not supposed to need anything else. No damsels on the sidewalk proffered them sugar plums, very few people even knew them by sight.

I will do Magnus Kindred the justice to say that the keen memory of some of his own early days at the Post made him a little bit thoughtful of these forlorn young strangers. It was no great credit to him, perhaps, if he now and then passed on to fourth class hands a box of Miss Flirt's best candy, but he did better than that. He gave words of encouragement and counsel, cheered up the faint hearts, and would smile and speak to a pleb on the sidewalk, just as if he himself had not been first sergeant, and a prime favourite with the ladies.

Some people will say he could have had no time to look after anyone but himself, but you never know how much you have, till you divide it up with needy people. And I doubt if helping takes more time than hazing. It is rather a question of which word you will say, what look you will give. And there had come to Cadet Kindred the wholesome perception that he could be a power for good or for evil, with all these younger boys. Consciously or unconsciously, they were watching the upper classmen, and taking tone from them.

"What is in the way of your living just as earnest Christian lives here, as at home?" he had said one day to some plebs who were gradually sliding back from all their good home habits. And one answered:

"Because we are so far from home, sir, and can't go to church so often, and can't keep Sunday as we have been taught."

But another said boldly:

"Because the first classmen are so different in camp from what they are in prayer-meeting."

And it set Magnus to thinking. His own pleb days were not so long past that he could forget how he used to watch Mr. Upright, to see what all his brave words in the prayer meeting came to in the week; finding the first captain's straight everyday walk a constant help. And just such service he himself was called upon to render to these new men. It had been a doubt with Mr. Kindred, as the holidays drew on, whether after all he would use his Christmas leave. He had it, easy enough, but what should he do with it? Home was too far away to be even thought of, and short of home, what was there he cared for? Magnus rather thought he would stay at the Post.

However, as the time drew near, and Mrs. Newcomb renewed her invitation, and Mrs. Beguile sent up hers, Magnus yielded to the prospective charms of the Metropolitan Museum, Central Park, and New York harbour; and joined the gay party that were going to town. Five days' escape from the reveille gun was, after all, worth something.

Busy, gay days! In their quiet "cit" dress the cadets roamed about all day, and then at night, in correct cadet costume, went to dinner here and supper there, until Magnus thought he must have been presented to all the pretty girls in town. Rooms were full of floating sashes and falling lace and skirts that could "stand alone": and the men in grey moved about among the airiest kind of clouds and billows; a maze of bewildering scents and sounds and visions, with old friends and new on every hand.

The last night of all there was a large gathering of young people at the house of Mrs. Beguile, and of course the West Pointers were petted and wondered over to their hearts' content. In fact Magnus had more of it than he wanted; he grew tired of being asked for bell buttons, and telling how often he had his hair cut. McLean enjoyed it, and Randolph could never have too many girls around, even if the fair creatures had to stand on tiptoe and peep over each other's shoulders. But Mr. Kindred was in a very critical mood, thinking of Cherry; and found himself comparing necks and shoulders on every hand. He was saying stringent things to himself anent one of the prodigal owners, when Mrs. Beguile touched him on the arm. "I do not wonder you are lost in admiration," she said, following his eyes, which were just then fixed on the youngest Miss Fashion; an extremely handsome young lady, too much of whose dress seemed to have slid down to the floor in a mass of curling frills and furbelows.

"Like Venus rising from the sea, is she not, Mr. Kindred, with her white foamy draperies?"

Magnus considered this rendering.

"Why did Venus rise from the sea?" he asked abruptly. But now Mrs. Beguile looked at him.

"Why?" she repeated. "Dear me! how should I know? I'm not the least bit classical. Because she liked to, I suppose. But my dear Mr. Kindred, as our great poet has beautifully remarked, 'Life is a business, not good cheer.' Will you come with me and make yourself useful?"

"What an opening—to a man who has been totally useless for the last four days!" Magnus answered, as he followed his hostess to the supper room. "But if your poet had seen that table, Mrs. Beguile, he would have written down life to be good cheer and not business—couldn't help it, you know; it would have confused his mind to that extent."

Mrs. Beguile took this as a great joke, and went about repeating it.

"Cadets have such pretty ways of saying things," she remarked. "Oh, Busy, here's Mr. Kindred. You used to see him at West Point, you know, and he's just as nice as ever."

Poor little Miss Bee! Did she need to be assured of that? But she bore herself gallantly, was just glad enough and not too glad to see him, gave one thought to her dress—so unfashionably high and plain—and never found out with what deep approval Cadet Kindred noticed its modest cut and simple trimmings. "Cherry might ask her to be one of the bridesmaids," he thought. Poor little Mabel!

"Say, Kin," Rig confided to him as he went by with Miss Flirt's empty plate; "just two things not here, cast-iron pancakes, and 'Sammy.'"

"And the first captain," added Randolph, "yelling out 'Battalion, rise!' before we're half through."

"What do you think of this, for Commissary beef?" quoth Twinkle, devouring a sandwich in blissful ignorance of its component parts.

"Mr. Kindred! Mr. Kindred!" called out Miss Freak from a window seat behind him; "do please get me a glass of punch. I'm just dying with thirst."

Magnus stepped over to a side table and brought the young lady a glass of sparkling cold water. Miss Freak promptly handed it back.

"What did you bring that for?" she asked. "I didn't say water, man alive!"

"Best thing I know, when you are thirsty," said Magnus. "Try it once."

"Try it once," the girl repeated mockingly. "Do you suppose I never have?"

"She wants punch," remarked Miss Saucy.

"She thinks she does."

"She knows she does," said Miss Freak, with a stamp of her little foot. "You'd better believe she knows what she wants."

"I never heard that ladies could not be mistaken, did you?" said Magnus provokingly.

"Mrs. Beguile! Mrs. Beguile!" called out Miss Freak, "here's one of your guests very rude to me!"

"What is it, Freaky?" asked the good lady, bustling up. "Rude to you? Oh, I guess not. Mr. Kindred will take care of you."

"If she will let me." "Why, he's the very man!" said Miss Freak. "I want some punch, and he'll not get it for me."

"Not get it for you, dear?"

"Doused me with cold water," said the young lady, pouting.

"Doused you!" Mrs. Beguile looked at the pink draperies, which gave no sign of such heroic treatment; then she turned to Magnus.

"I am trying to take care of her, Mrs. Beguile," Magnus said.

The good lady looked at him,—the clean, clear face, the bright eyes; looked across to the great punch bowl, where the ladling and quaffing went ceaselessly on, her own boys among the crowd, and a shadow fell on her placid face.

"Do you drink nothing but water yourself, Mr. Kindred?"

"Nothing, ma'am."

"Not even punch?"

"No, ma'am."

Another look went across the room, and then Mrs. Beguile said with a half sigh:

"Freaky, if I were you, I'd let him take care of me as he thinks best; and of himself, too. You are a brave man, Mr. Kindred."

"'The Lord cover his head in the day of battle,'" said a low voice behind Magnus. He turned quickly, but perhaps the speaker had turned too, for he saw no sign.

"I thought you wouldn't fight?" said Miss Lane, laughing up at him.

As for Miss Freak, she pouted, and made believe cry; and Randolph darted over to the great bowl, coming back with a glass of punch in each hand, one for his own companion and one for Miss Freak.

"Such airs!" commented portly Mrs. Chose, sailing by. "Setting himself up above the rest of the world. Just the way with those West Pointers. I told you so, Miranda; more strut than sense. I'll never take you to West Point again."

"Oh, yes you will," said Miss Miranda cheerfully, "because I'm going. Give me the strut, every time."

"I admire your courage, Mr. Kindred," said another lady; "it is quite touching in so young a man. But I am always sorry to see a fine thing wasted, thrown away: misdirected zeal, you know, for instance. You cannot think for a moment that one of those small glasses of punch could affect a person in any way?"

"It might make him want another, Mrs. Bright," Magnus answered respectfully. She was a very pleasant, sensible woman, and had always been very kind to him.

"Want another? Well, let him have it. Two such glasses of simple punch? Why, the head that wouldn't stand that isn't worth the purchase."

"Mine would be worth more before than it would after," Magnus answered gaily, but not without a twinge.

"Oh, are you particularly susceptible?"

"Not that I know of, ma'am."

"Of course, if you are," the lady went on, "you do right to let it alone. But you might grant others the pleasure. Really, I think it is rather narrow of you, Mr. Kindred, and so I don't like it. You know you have always been my model cadet."

Magnus bowed.

"Fences have a narrow look, I do suppose," he said, "but they are good things, in spots. And I'd rather disappoint you so, than in some other ways, Mrs. Bright."

The two stood silent for a moment, looking off towards the punch bowl. Men came and went, and went and came, with other people's glasses; and then stood still and emptied their own. Young men, old men, with women on the outskirts. "And you will not get me a glass?" said Mrs. Bright; looking up at her favourite.

"No, ma'am, if you please," Magnus said, with very winning deference. "You will not ask me, Mrs. Bright?"

"You cannot think there is any risk for me? Would it be against West Point regulations? But they are not in force here."

"No; although West Point honour is mine to guard, wherever I am," answered Magnus. "But I have said it to myself, that I will never take nor give the stuff in any form. For a regulation older than West Point, Mrs. Bright."

"What, then?"

"'If meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no meat while the world standeth, lest I make my brother to offend.'"

Very hilarious voices from the region of the punch bowl emphasised the clear, brave words.

"I don't like it," said the lady frankly. "You upset all my ideas."

"But why do you keep him mewed up here in the corner, Mrs. Bright?" said Miss Saucy, who had been listening intently behind backs. "I don't believe he's had one scrap of supper. Have a cup of tea; do, Magnus. You can't live upon air, man, even in the plural. Here's some I brought you myself. Taste it and see how good it is. You like lemon, I know."

Magnus took the cup from the glittering fingers, expressed his thanks, and tasted as he was bid. Then instantly turned and set the full cup down on the table, coming back to his place without a word.

A great burst of laughter greeted him. Miss Saucy fairly sank down into a chair, and Miss Newcomb and a half-dozen more clapped hands with delight.

"What is all this?" said Mrs. Bright sternly; the screaming style was not to her taste, and she had caught the sudden flush and gleam on the face of Charlemagne Kindred. "What is all this, girls?"

"Rum," Magnus said briefly.

"It wasn't!" cried Miss Saucy; "it was good, honest tea, Mrs. Bright."

"With dishonest seasoning."

"That was a very unladylike trick," said Mrs. Bright. "Girls, I am extremely astonished at you. Rum in tea? Why, I never heard of such a thing."

"Oh, aunty," cried Miss Freak, with her hands on her sides, "there's lots of things you never heard of!"

"Well, I am glad I have heard of you!" said Mrs. Bright, giving Magnus a good grip of her hand. "Glad I have heard you, too. And now I must go."

Miss Lane, who had been a keen looker-on at all this, came up a little closer.

"How does it work?" she said softly. "You know I warned you those old rules would get in your way."

"They have not yet," said Magnus. "I am all standing, thank you."

"I see; straighter than ever. It's a great thing to have 'views,'" said Miss Lane, with a laugh. "When they materialise like yours."

For a few minutes the air was full of "See you at the New Year's Hop"—"Take you to the Hundredth Night"—"Come for first-class camp." Then the company separated, the lights went out, and the punch bowl was left to its own reflections.