a few weeks he was
dead of a fever, brought on by too much study,--and so ended the sad
history of my fourth boy.

After this, for many years, I was a boyless being; but was so busy I did
not feel my destitute condition till I went to the hospital during the
war, and found my little sergeant. His story has been told elsewhere,
but the sequel to it is a pleasant one, for Baby B. still writes to me
now and then, asks advice about his future, and gladdens me with good
news of his success as a business man in Kansas.

As if to atone for the former dearth, a sudden shower of most superior
boys fell upon me, after I recovered from my campaign. Some of the very
best sort it was my fortune to know and like--real gentlemen, yet boys
still--and jolly times they had, stirring up the quiet old town with
their energetic society.

There was W., a stout, amiable youth, who would stand in the middle of a
strawberry patch with his hands in his pockets and let us feed him
luxuriously. B., a delightful scapegrace, who came once a week to
confess his sins, beat his breast in despair, vow awful vows of
repentance, and then cheerfully depart to break every one of them in the
next twenty-four hours. S., the gentle-hearted giant; J., the dandy;
sober, sensible B.; and E., the young knight without reproach or fear.

But my especial boy of the batch was A.--proud and cold and shy to other
people, sad and serious sometimes when his good heart and tender
conscience showed him his short-comings, but so grateful for sympathy
and a kind word.

I could not get at him as easily as I could the other lads, but, thanks
to Dickens, I found him out at last.

We played Dolphus and Sophy Tetterby in the 'Haunted Man,' at one of the
school festivals; and during the rehearsals I discovered that my Dolphus
was--permit the expression, oh, well-bred readers!--a trump. What fun we
had to be sure, acting the droll and pathetic scenes together, with a
swarm of little Tetterbys skirmishing about us! From that time he has
been my Dolphus and I his Sophy, and my yellow-haired laddie don't
forget me, though he has a younger Sophy now, and some small Tetterbys
of his own. He writes just the same affectionate letters as he used to
do, though I, less faithful, am too busy to answer them.

But the best and dearest of all my flock was my Polish boy, Ladislas
Wisniewski--two hiccoughs and a sneeze will give you the name perfectly.
Six years ago, as I went down to my e