."

"Those were good old days," he said contentedly, as he opened and shut
her fan.

"These are better," she answered, looking down at him, as he sat there
in the moonlight. "I can't make it seem as if you ever lived in a
chair."

He looked up, shaking back his hair with a quick motion of his head.

"It's over now, thank Heaven! Still, it brought us together, after all.
Teddy, I'm going to miss you. I wish I needn't go."

"But you must," she said hastily, startled at something in his tone. "It
isn't everybody who has the double chance to study for his profession
and to be treated by Dr. Brunald, at the same time."

"If it only finishes the cure! But two years is such a long time."

"Yes. But I'm going down with your mother to see you off, you know; and
then you'll write often."

"Of course. But so much can happen in two years."

"I hope there can. Do you remember my three wishes?"

"No. Yes. Seems to me I do. What were they?"

"It was one day, under the trees in your grounds. I was in a
confidential mood, I remember, and I was moved to tell them to you. They
included a bicycle, a college course, and a successful career of
authorship."

"I remember. You've two of them, Ted; and I believe you'll get the
other."

"Wait till you come home. You may find me no nearer the end than I am
now."

"I doubt it, Teddy. You've the stuff in you. Write and tell me, when you
make your first hit."

"I will. I'm counting on your letters, Billy, for it's going to be very
lonely without you." Her lip quivered again, and in the moonlight he saw
an odd glitter in her eyes.

He took her hand in his.

"Ted," he said gently; "two years can't make any difference in such a
friendship as ours. We've stuck together through thick and thin, and
nothing can change us. Two years isn't a very long time to wait, and
then, please God, I shall come home to you all, a strong man. After
that, I shall never go away again--to leave you, dear."

The last words were almost inaudible. Then the silence and the moonlight
closed in about them.

The chapel was filled to overflowing, the next day, as the procession
filed up the middle aisle. Led by the white-gowned ushers, they came
slowly onward, faculty and trustees, alumnae and seniors, while above and
around them, soft and full by turns, rose the sound of the organ under
the masterly touch they knew so well. It was an hour when even the most
heedless freshman felt the pain, the almost solem