“Good for you, Dick! But I must be going now. I am putting up at the Ivy. Will you walk up with me? I'd like to have a word with you.” The two men walked in silence along the shady, moon-flecked streets of the tranquil old university town. Then the elder one spoke. “You have done the right thing, I am sure. That officers' training-school is a good place to get a practical education. When you are through, how would you like to have a post in the Ordnance Department at Washington? I have some influence there and believe I could get you in without difficulty.” “Thanks, a lot,” answered the lad modestly. “You're awfully kind. But, if you don't mind my saying so, I think I'd rather have service at the front--that is, if I can qualify for it.” There was another long silence before Hardman spoke again, with an apparent change of subject: “I wish you would tell me what you really think of your uncle's views on the classics, you and the other fellows of your age in the university.” Dick hesitated a moment before he replied: “Well, personally, you know, I believe what Uncle says is usually about right. He has the habit of it. But I allow when he gets on his hobby he rides rather hard. Most of the other fellows have given up the classics--they like the modern-language course with sciences better--perhaps it's softer. They say not; but I know the classics are hard enough. I flunked out on my Greek exam junior year. So, you see, I'm not a very good judge. But, anyhow, wasn't the bit he read us from Juvenal simply fine? And didn't he read it well? I've felt that a hundred times, but never knew how to say it.” It was in the early fall of 1918, more than a year later, that Hardman came once more into the familiar library at Calvinton. He had read the casualty list of the last week of August and came to condole with his friend De Vries. The old man sat in the twilight of the tranquil book-lined room, leaning back in his armchair, with an open letter on the table before him. He gave his hand cordially to Hardman and thanked him for his sympathetic words. He talked quietly and naturally about Dick, and confessed how much he should miss the boy--as it were, his only son. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I am going to be lonely, but I am not forsaken. I shall be sad sometimes, but never sorry--always proud of my boy. Would you like to see this letter? It is the last that he wrote.” It was a young, simple letter, full of cheerful joking and personal details and words of affection which the shy lad would never have spoken face to face. At the end he wrote: