"All depends," he said. "Give me my particular angel for the preacher, and the text may go." "Mr. Bouché," said Rose, rising up, "I am sure I heard a drum." "You can always hear a drum here, any time of day or night." "Not that drum; listen!" "Happy drum to be listened to." "But seriously, we must walk on; you will be late." "'One private absent.' Hard on the Com. But it's not imminent yet, Miss Rose." "Why, you do not look!" said Rose. "See how the shadow lies on the river. Please go! Just run on; never mind me." "Never mind you!" said Bouché, taking leisurely steps at her side. "Not if I know it." "Mr. Bouché, you will be late." "Like enough. The first sergeant of D Company will tell it with his hand on his heart, regretfully adding: ''Tis true, 'tis pity; pity 'tis, 'tis true.' And old Powder Flask will jump for joy in his regulation shoes." "What for?" "The chance of skinning me for the ninety-ninth time this week." "Well, I'll not be responsible for his joy," said Rose. "Good-bye!" And as they came to one of the many cross-paths that led towards the plain, Rose suddenly turned up the ascent, running so lightly and easily that it was almost as pretty to see as the regular double-time. Bouché stood open-eyed for a second, and then came up with her, fuming. "Now this is atrocious, preposterous, unheard of!" he said. "I don't care a button for a 'late.'" "Well, you should," said Rose, laughing round at him, keeping her pace and her breath admirably. "And this might turn into a cold absence. You ought to care. Magnus says discipline counts. There's a different sort of text for you." "I vow!" said Bouché. "Don't you give me any of _his_ wise sayings, or I'll punch his head when I get back to barracks, the first thing." "Not the _first_," said Rose with a gay laugh, as they reached the edge of the open, "Look! there goes the band. Run, Mr. Bouché!" "As if I hadn't been running!" said Bouché, much aggrieved. "Miss Rose, I'll owe you one better for this." And then, run he did. L FAIRYLAND Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go, Their lances in the rest levelled fair and low; Their banners and their crests waving in a row. --FRERE. The first week in June at West Point is such an old story that I had best not say much about it here. The (generally) perfect weather, the stirring drills, the crowd of lookers-on, with the sort of jail delivery from study hours and usual restrictions. The cadets come out and sun themselves like hibernated bees, or bears, with an unlimited taste for honey. "Best" dresses sweep the ground, "best" bonnets brave the wind; only the serene blue sky looks down unmoved at the show and frolic and madcap doings of the people. It is a little older than they.