There is a short prayer from the chaplain, "Hail, Columbia!" from the band, and then the address--or, maybe two. From the president of the board generally, followed often by words from some high ranking officer, or some notability in civil life. Addresses sometimes wise, sometimes more--otherwise--than one could wish; very seldom vivid and instinct with fire. The country figures, of course, and "this Institution," and the flag, with the service, in a mild sort of way. All eyes are fixed upon this particular class, and the army welcomes it with open arms. And the cadets have done well, and the professors have done their best. On the whole, the sort of speeches to which you would like to apply a match and bring them to either a blaze or to ashes. How rarely--Oh, how rarely!--have these veterans in camp or council one word of real cheer, wisdom, and fire, for these "youngsters," these smooth-faced new recruits. Perhaps it makes less difference than I think to the grave young men waiting there, bare-headed and absorbed; they have been at such high pressure, and have so much else to think of. They listen, and applaud, from time to time, and generally in the right place. Once in a while you may notice that just _there_ the Southern hands are silent. More music follows, and then the adjutant with his stack of diplomas comes to the front and stands behind the Superintendent, or whoever is to give them out: in the old days, it was often General Sherman. One by one he takes the parchment from the adjutant, and the names are called off in order of standing. "Harvey Linton!" A tall, dark-haired young fellow rises from the grey mass, comes to the foot of the platform, and with a low bow takes the credentials for which he has toiled so bravely. "I congratulate you, sir," says the donor; "not so much for being at the head as for the hard work which has put you there,"--and Linton bows again, and goes back to his seat. "Yes, he has done very well--ve--ry well," so his father in the crowd answers friendly words, trying hard to seem unconscious that his son has carried off first honours. "Anson Dent!" and this time it is a broad shouldered Wisconsiner, followed by a Virginian, a fair haired Hoosier, and all the rest. But you notice other differences among the men. For while some smile and bow gratefully, others give the briefest sort of nod, and some none at all. Some flush, and some grow pale, and some hands almost grab the diploma as if a right had been long withheld. And one casts furtive glances towards a certain bewitching bonnet in the crowd, as he goes to his seat, and the next sends a deeper gaze across the gay lines, seeking a face and dress the plainest there, but the best beloved in all the world; while many see only the friends a thousand miles away. One man unrolls his diploma and studies it with all his eyes, his neighbour plays with his, as if it were the veriest trifle--a mere bagatelle. "Charlemagne Kindred!"