And I am bound to own that this man went forward in a dream. With one swift glance at Mr. Wayne, he did catch the loving interest in that face, but the rest of the people might as well have been a fog bank. He was feeling so much that he seemed not to feel at all, until when they broke up, and Twinkle pressed through the crowd, crying: "Where is my mother! I want my mother!" And then Magnus could have shaken him, for daring to put his own heart-cry in words. Indiscriminate cheering was not the fashion in those days. A specially popular man, or one who had done his work against special odds, might have some hearty plaudits. But generally the applause was kept for "the last man," who by brilliant carelessness or industrious breaking of regulations, footed "the immortals." Of course, they all cheered _him_. Had he not kept someone else from being "last man?"--even now and then (it is whispered) closing up the class end so that no one else _could_ fall through. But after all, _somebody_ must be last, so cheer him on. He may outrank you yet, in life. The scene changes. Everyone rises to the "Star-Spangled Banner," there is the benediction, the cadets march away to the "Left Behind Girl" once more; and then girls present, who will not accept the situation, tear along to the front of barracks to hear the new orders. The companies are drawn up in line, never again to stand together there, and the adjutant publishes the orders for the last time. It is a long reading. Lists of the men who graduate, of the men who go on furlough, and of the new cadet officers; and again the friendly chin-straps do the part of words, and "conceal thought." But if you are near enough, and know the faces, you can see a gleam in the eyes of the men who are to wear chevrons, or gloom on the faces of some who are left in ranks, while the furlough men are almost dancing. But not even a half-inch stir, anywhere. When the reading is done, and they break ranks, then indeed frolic breaks loose, and every sort of thing is on hand. Graduates rush to their rooms, clasping a hand here and there as they go, to put off the grey once more and forever. Furlough men also "scoot" away, eager to come out in "cits" for the journey; while the others hug and congratulate each other in a threefold tangle, sometimes; the new officers hurry to put on their chevrons; and (lest the fun should be one-sided) are now and then caught and borne away and put under the hydrant by the zealous yearlings.