ing in their hands. The accuracy of the Hebrew
verb did not matter so much as it did last term. The homiletic uses or
abuses of an applied text, the soundness of the new school doctrine of
free will, seemed less important to the universe than they were
before the Flag went down on Sumter. Young eyes looked up at their
instructors mistily, for the dawn of utter sacrifice was in them. He
was only an Academy boy yesterday, or a theologue; unknown, unnoticed,
saying his lesson in Xenophon, taking his notes on the Nicene Creed;
blamed a little, possibly, by his teacher or by his professor, for
inattention.

To-day he comes proudly to the desk. His step rings on the old, bare
floors that he will never tread again. "Sir, my father gives his
permission. I enlist at once."

To-day he is a hero, and the hero's light is glorious on his face.
To-day _he_ is the teacher, and the professor learns lessons in his
turn now. The boy whom he has lectured and scolded towers above him
suddenly, a sacred thing to see. The old man stands uncovered before
his pupil as they clasp hands and part.

The drum calls on, and the boys drill bravely--no boys' parade this,
but awful earnest now. The ladies of Andover sew red braid upon blue
flannel shirts, with which the Academy Company make simple uniform.

Then comes a morning when the professors cannot read the papers for
the news they bring; but cover streaming eyes with trembling hands,
and turn their faces. For the black day of the defeat at Bull Run has
darkened the summer sky.

Andover does not sew for the missionaries now. Her poor married
theologues must wait a little for their babies' dresses. Even the blue
flannel shirts for the drill are forgotten. The chapel is turned into
sudden, awful uses, of which the "pious founders" in their comfortable
graves did never dream. For there the women of the Hill, staying for
no prayer-meeting, and delaying to sing no hymns, pick lint and roll
bandages and pack supplies for the field; and there they sacrifice and
suffer, like women who knew no theology at all; and since it was not
theirs to offer life to the teeth of shot and shell, they "gave their
happiness instead."

* * * * *

The first thing which I wrote, marking in any sense the beginning of
what authors are accustomed to call their "literary career"--I dislike
the phrase and wish we had a better--was a war story.

As nearly as I can recall the facts, up to