There were three long tables, with benches on either side, all constructed of boards such as were used for building the bunkhouse. The carpet of the dining room was rich green grass, and the ceiling green foliage and blue sky, all gilded with bright warm sunshine. A brisk fresh breeze made electric fans superfluous. Roast beef, gravy, brown baked potatoes, coffee with real milk in plenty, (from the four cows borrowed from another institution) and the most delicious of lemon pies rapidly disappeared. Soon after dinner a service was held. I confess I was quite curious to see this service, without minister, conducted by “Bob,” separated from his group by the deepest of sectarian differences. At these services occurrences of the week and plans of the coming week are talked over, and a kind of rough-and-ready, heart-to-heart moralizing is done. The subject, this day, was of course the death of their unfortunate comrade. I did not know then, that the most impressive of all funeral services I have ever seen, was to come that afternoon. The boys and instructors (that is what the officers are called) lay in a group on the grass under the shade of tall trees, and Bob sat on a stump. His face showed signs of the deep anxiety and sleeplessness of the last few days. The talk was brief. The boys were asked to meditate over the decease of their friend, and draw their own lessons. One point only was enlarged upon. Some neighboring farmers had criticised the management for continuing to work during the two days following the day of the accident. “If sorrow is heartfelt, it does not require that duty towards the living be sacrificed to empty form in regard to the dead.” Only the words were simpler, more explicit. The afternoon was spent in gathering flowers to give to the parents of the dead comrade, who were to arrive that afternoon. There was a wreath of white lilacs, and bunches of lilies of the valley, and white wild flowers. When the parents arrived, boys and instructors stood bare-headed in front of the old dilapidated framehouse that had been patched up to serve for the various purposes of the farm, and as a kind of general field headquarters. Some twenty to thirty feet from the house each boy had planted a tree on arbor day. After a few words from Bob, the tree that had been planted by the dead boy was dug up and transplanted to a place of honor. Then amid deep silence, the father spoke to the comrades of his lost son. It is impossible for me to render the simple words in their true effect. He hoped that the death of his son might teach the rest of the boys the same lesson that his life could no longer teach, namely, that the efforts of good men could not fail to save them from evil careers, if they brought but a little good-will towards those that were willing to help them regain their true selves.