He lived here with some rough country lads and with you and me.

He has had no such chance as Leila's." "Oh, the Point will mature him.

Then two years on the Plains--and after that the mills." "Perhaps--two years! But, Penhallow, who can dare to predict what God has in store for us.

Two years!" "Yes--too true--who can! Just now we are financially diseased, and men are thinking more of the bread and butter and debts of to-morrow than of Mr.Buchanan in the toils of his Southern Cabinet." "That's so.

Good-night." Leila took upstairs with her John's last letter to her aunt, and sitting down read it eagerly: "WEST POINT.
"MY DEAR AUNT: The life here, as I wrote you, is something almost monastic in its systematic regularity, and its despotic claims on one's time.