"He would make a beautiful anything," said the mother, her eyes shining at the mere thought of her boy. "But he cannot be a minister, Rose, at least not in his father's church, without going to college." "And that takes money," said Violet. "Mamma, if I were Uncle Sam, I'd have free colleges. I can't see why not, just as well as free schools." "I do not like to hear you say 'Uncle Sam,' Violet. It is not respectful to the Government." "Magnus does." Mrs. Kindred might have answered that the bump of reverence was not as yet developed in that young magnate's head to any alarming degree, but no such disloyal words came out. She sat thinking. "The Government has one free college, you know, girls," she said; "at least, I suppose it may be called that. Two, in fact: the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and the Military Academy at West Point. I wonder it never occurred to me before." "West Point!" exclaimed both the girls, open-eyed. "Then he'd be a soldier, and wear a uniform," said Violet. "Yes, and then there would be a war, and he would get killed," said Rose. "No, he wouldn't," said Violet. "Catch Magnus letting anybody shoot _him_. He's a good deal too quick for that. Besides, people can get killed anywhere. Missionaries do, sometimes." "I wonder I never thought of West Point," Mrs. Kindred repeated. "Hush, girls; don't say such things. There is no war now, and maybe there never will be again. Magnus would like it, too." "He'd be splendid in uniform," said Rose, "he's so tall." "Too tall," said the mother with a sigh. "Magnus grows altogether too fast. Perhaps West Point would be just the thing for him, and make him spread out a little. You know, girls, what big fellows some of those army men are, in papa's book of officers?" "Yes," said Violet doubtfully, "big enough. But then Magnus never could be as broad as he is long, so we needn't worry." A cheery whistle, strong and sweet and clear, pierced through the summer air outside; and with one consent the three talkers hurried to the window to look out. It was a back window, commanding easily a woodshed, a small garden, and a barn. In the woodshed, hard at work upon a somewhat elaborate dog-house, stood the young future victim of mathematics and wave motion. Coat off, hat tossed down, hands busily chiselling out some bit of ornamentation; the head with its shock of brown curls bent low over his work. And very appropriately just then, for the thoughts that filled the air, Magnus was whistling "Yankee Doodle": his limber young tones going with great force and discernment into all the ups and downs of that delightful old melody. Do not mistake me and think the words ironical; I am extremely fond of "Yankee Doodle," myself. "How queer he should be whistling that!" said Rose. "Oh, Magnus!" "Hello!" "Come up here. We were just talking about you." "Talk away." "But mother and all!" "Good I am down here, then," said the boy, eyeing a bit of board along the edge to see if it was straight.