“I thought that she was rather bright-looking,” responded Philip,

“though her clothes were pretty freakish.”

“Well, I fancy we were rather in the way as long as we couldn’t help

much. Julia has probably carried the girl home with her. Did she open

her mouth to you?”

“Who, Julia?”

“No, the other girl. I didn’t hear her say a word.”

“Oh, she said ‘yes’ once and ‘no’ twice,” replied Philip, laughing.

“Ah!” sighed Pamela, standing beside Julia, “I hope I’ll never see any

sugar again. I’m not bound to do errands for Miss Batson.” Then, as

Julia looked puzzled, she began to explain. “Miss Batson is my—” she

hesitated. She could not truthfully say “landlady,” so she tried again.

“She has the house where I live. She has boarders, and sometimes I do

errands for her. It seems easy to carry her things in my bag, but

to-day—”

“Were you on your way home?” interposed Julia, to draw her mind from the

recent catastrophe.

“No, I was going to Fay House to study.”

“Well, then, please come home with me. Ruth and I are always at home

Mondays, but you have never called on us.”

Pamela hesitated. Every hour counted in her scheme of work. But the

temptation was strong, and she went on with Julia. Although the latter

remembered that Pamela had never invited her to call, she realized that

she herself might have done various little things to make the way

pleasanter for one who was so evidently alone. She could see that Pamela

would not make friends easily, and she had noticed her at none of the

college affairs since that first Idler.

“College ought to be broadening,” thought Julia, “and yet I believe that

it has made me extraordinarily selfish. I haven’t the least excuse to

offer for neglecting Pamela, for I saw at the beginning of the term that

she would need a friend.”

Pamela’s eye brightened as she stood on the threshold of Julia’s pretty

room. “How lovely it is!” she exclaimed.

The open fire blazing on the hearth certainly gave the room a cheerful

aspect, and the little tea-table added to the homelikeness of the scene.

Poor Pamela sighed, the comfort appealed to her. There on the table lay

several of the newest books,—one a volume of criticism that had

attracted great attention; another, and the best of all in Pamela’s

eyes, a history of Italian Art, very fully illustrated. She recognized

the cover, and could hardly keep her hands from it.

The general tone of the draperies was old blue, always a restful color

when not used in excess. The curtains were of a soft rep in this shade,

and beneath them were spotted muslin short blinds. Two of the

easy-chairs were covered in old blue corduroy, and a third, of soft

brown ooze leather, was particularly inviting. There were two or three

small water-colors hanging there, but the pictures on the wall were

chiefly photographs from the old masters. There were three Rembrandt

heads, life-size, and a Madonna of Botticelli, as well as his head of a

Florentine lady. A Turner etching hung on the little space at the edge

of the mantle, and two or three etchings of minor importance closed the

list of pictures. Julia’s piano filled one recess, and a bookcase that

she had had made especially for the room filled the other.

Before Pamela could protest that she intended to stay but a few minutes,

she found herself with hat and coat off, cosily seated before the fire.

Julia flung herself on the divan between the windows.

“I really feel tired! That wind was very wearing. After all, home is a

good place on a day like this. I will have the tea sent up before four

o’clock, or rather the hot water, for I make the tea myself. Oh, here is

Ruth! Do like a good girl touch the bell. I like to start with the water

hot,” explained Julia, filling her kettle with water from Mrs. Colton’s

kitchen. With the aid of the alcohol lamp the water soon boiled. Then

putting three coverfuls of tea from the caddy into a china teapot, she

covered the teapot with an embroidered cozy.

“Please notice,” cried Ruth, “our silver caddy. An old grand-aunt of

mine presented it to me in her delight that we were to have a tea-table.

She had feared that college would destroy our domestic tastes.”

“Yes,” added Julia, “we have made a great impression on our relatives by

demanding things for our tea-table. When they asked what we wished for

our rooms they evidently expected us to say dictionaries or other books.

But here is a fascinating set of spoons from my cousin Brenda—every

handle different; and Aunt Anna gave me this biscuit jar, and Edith

Blair worked these doilies.”

“Is that a Tanagra figure?” asked Pamela abruptly, pointing to the

bookcase. “How I envy you!”

“Take it down,” said Julia, “if you wish to examine it close at hand,

although it’s only a replica,” she added apologetically.

“Oh, _may_ I?” exclaimed Pamela, lifting it from the broad top of the

bookcase. And while the conversation flowed on she examined the

figurine, fondly noting every graceful line.

No one who looked at Pamela could fail to comprehend that she must be

more or less stinted for money. She herself would have told you, had you

asked her, that she knew that her gray gown was of rather dowdy make,

although she might not have realized as clearly as the onlooker just

where the seams were crooked, or in what particular places the skirt

hung unevenly. Pamela had at the best a limited wardrobe, and her

village dressmaker had not kept pace with city styles. Pamela herself,

unskilled with the needle, even when she knew that a garment might be

improved, had not the ability to make the change. She consoled herself

with the thought that no one in Cambridge was likely to notice her. She

was too obscure to be criticised. She had always admired Julia’s gowns,

so pretty and so simple, yet with the hall-mark of good workmanship.

Pamela was a lover of beauty in every form, and she now wished vaguely,

as she watched Ruth moving about the room, that she herself possessed at

least one gown that she could wear as gracefully as Ruth wore hers. Ruth

was giving little touches to the furniture, moving one chair farther

from the fire, pulling another out of a corner. Julia had excused

herself for a moment to rearrange her hair in the inner room, “in case,”

she said, “that we should have some more critical callers.”

Hardly had she left when there came a loud rapping at the door.

“Come in!” cried Ruth. “It must be Percy Colton. He often runs up after

school,” she added in an aside to Pamela.

The door was thrown open with a bang, and there on the threshold stood

Clarissa, tall, almost overpoweringly tall, with a smile on her face, a

flush of crimson on her cheeks, and a winter coat of a much brighter

crimson on her back. Two other girls were with her, whom she immediately

introduced to Ruth as Miss Burlap, of Kansas, and Miss Creighton, of

Maine.

“It is so much better,” she said, immediately explaining, “to know from

just what State a girl comes. You know what to talk about from the

start, and you can account sooner for her peculiarities.”

Ruth smiled at this sally, although she was not inclined to approve much

that Clarissa said or did, and she was glad to see Julia emerging from

the bedroom. Julia’s greeting was very cordial to Clarissa and her

companions, and Clarissa when she caught sight of Pamela greeted her as

a long-lost friend.

Hardly, however, was the interchange of greetings over when the

half-open door was pushed open wider. “More visitors!” exclaimed Ruth.

“How exciting!”

Mrs. Blair entered Julia’s study with lorgnette raised. The action was

involuntary. She had found the stairway at Mrs. Colton’s rather narrower

than stairways she was accustomed to, and had used the lorgnette to help

her find her way. Julia hastened forward to greet her, while Edith and

Brenda, with less ceremony, pushed past Mrs. Blair into the centre of

the room.

“Why, how perfectly delightful!” cried Ruth, and “What a surprise!” said

Julia; and the room which a few minutes before had seemed large and

comparatively quiet now appeared small, crowded, and bustling. The four

girls who knew one another best were chattering, and the four other

girls, Pamela, Clarissa, and the two friends of the latter, tried not to

show too much interest in the trio that had just entered. Mrs. Blair

continued to survey the scene through her lorgnette until she had seated

herself in an easy-chair.

“Why, it’s even prettier than when I was here before,” cried Brenda in

her rather high-pitched voice. “You have two new chairs and a new

etching and several cups,—at least there are certainly two new ones.”

“I dare say,” responded Julia; “you must remember that you have been

here only once this year.”

“It is really a very pleasant room,” added Mrs. Blair, looking about

her; “not nearly as unconventional as I had supposed.” Mrs. Blair had

hesitated a little before the last word. “Feared” was what she would

have said had she not corrected herself in time.

[Illustration: “‘An American girl’—she spoke with emphasis—‘is her own

best chaperon’”]

“Ever since you’ve been at Radcliffe,” said Edith, “mamma has been

awfully afraid that you would turn into something unconventional. That’s

one reason we brought her out here to-day. We wished her to see that

even in a college room you could still be yourself.”

“Now Edith,” cried Mrs. Blair, “I knew that Julia could not change, but

of course I can’t quite get used to a girl’s having rooms just like a

Harvard student.”

“Well now, Mrs. Blair, you can see that ours are not just like theirs. I

only wish that they were. There’s no such luck in sight as yet for

Radcliffe students as a fine dormitory for our own use like Claverly or

Hastings—or even Holworthy. We can’t have suites of rooms and private

bath-rooms, and all the fine things that Philip and his friends have.”

“No,” added Ruth, “we haven’t any proctor, even, to keep watch over us.”

“That’s one of the things that would trouble me a little. _Whom_ do you

have for chaperons?”

Clarissa could no longer keep silent.

“An American girl”—she spoke with emphasis—“is her own best chaperon.

I’ve travelled hundreds of miles alone myself. I’ve even gone to

lectures alone—at night—and no one ever was rude to me. Indeed, I’d like

to see any one try to be! He wouldn’t try it a second time.”

Julia and Ruth looked slightly uncomfortable during this outburst.

Brenda and Edith began to giggle, and the others discreetly kept their

eyes cast down.

Mrs. Blair unconsciously raised her lorgnette again.

“Why, certainly,” she said, “a young girl need not look for rudeness. I

was merely thinking that she would be better with her own family.”

“Oh, but if she can’t have her own family, isn’t it the next best thing

for some other person’s family to offer her a home?”

“But I do not like the idea,” said Mrs. Blair, “of your living outside

of dormitories.”

“But the great charm of our life here is its independence,” said Julia

politely. “You know, too, that our boarding-places must be approved by

the Dean; and if we are very hard to manage, we can be reported by our

landladies.”

“But do they ever do it?”

“Well, I have heard that no Radcliffe girl has ever had to be

reprimanded severely. For my own part, I feel bound to behave even

better here than I would at home.” In her eagerness to do her college

justice, Ruth forgot that she was taking Clarissa’s side of the

argument.

“Besides,” added Julia, “many Radcliffe girls live at home in Boston, or

Cambridge, or the suburbs, coming to the college only for lectures, so

that we ought not to be under more restrictions than they.”

“I did not mean to start so serious a discussion,” said Mrs. Blair. “I’m

glad to see your piano here, Julia; music is so womanly an

accomplishment;” and Mrs. Blair sipped her tea with satisfaction. “You

make a good cup of tea, too.”

“Then you can report that we are fairly feminine?”

“Yes, indeed, Julia. But come, girls, we promised to look in on Philip

toward five o’clock.”

While Brenda and Edith were saying their last words Pamela in her corner

sat unnoticed with the Tanagra figure in her lap. Clarissa, meanwhile,

talked to Mrs. Blair with surprising ease.

Mrs. Blair was accustomed to deference even from her special friends,

and it seemed strange to have this young person meet her on impersonal

grounds, and talk to her merely as any girl might to any woman. Mrs.

Blair looked at Clarissa intently, without the lorgnette. She had always

heard that there was something queer about college girls. Here was one

of the species close at hand, and those other girls in the corner, who

had had so little to say to her. They were all rather badly dressed, at

least one could see that their gowns were not tailor-made. Julia, of

course, was not an ordinary college girl. She was Mr. Barlow’s niece who

had chosen to go to college, and it did seem a pity that she had to know

all kinds of people. These were the thoughts flitting through Mrs.

Blair’s mind as she stood there waiting for Brenda and Edith. As they

stood there the handle of her umbrella became entangled in her lorgnette

chain. “Permit me,” said Clarissa, trying to help her. But after a

little effort a sudden jerk sent the umbrella against the brass fender,

and a bit of the delicate ivory carving was broken.

“Now, it’s of no consequence,” protested Mrs. Blair, as Clarissa

apologized for her carelessness. Then with a farewell that was as

cordial for Clarissa as for the others, Mrs. Blair, with her furs and

rustling skirts and polished manner, had departed, and the room seemed

large and quiet again.

“After all,” sighed Clarissa, “there is something in a society manner,

for I suppose that’s what you’d call Mrs. Blair’s pleasant way of saying

things that she doesn’t exactly mean. Though I must have seemed a clumsy

creature, she almost made me believe that I’d done right in breaking

that bit of ivory. It’s the first time I’ve seen a grande dame at close

range, and it’s refreshing—for a change. Dear me!” and Clarissa turned

to Pamela, “nursing a doll? I hadn’t noticed before just what you were

doing.”

Pamela reddened under this chaffing, for at Clarissa’s words Miss

Burlap, of Kansas, and Miss Creighton, of Maine, turned their eyes

toward her.

“It’s a Tanagra figure,” said Pamela; “it belongs to Miss Bourne.”

“Oh, I’m just as wise as I was before. It looks like some kind of a

heathen idol, and you gaze at it as if you adored it.”

“Come, Miss Herter,” said Julia, hastening to the relief of Pamela.

“Even Freshmen in Cambridge are expected to know something about Greek

Art. You’d better get a catalogue of the Boston Art Museum, and the next

time you go there you can study the Tanagra figures.”

“Well,” replied Clarissa, “I’ll take your advice. But now I must be off.

‘Answers to Correspondents’ always declare that it’s rude to outstay an

earlier caller, but Mrs. Blair and your cousin so fascinated me that I

forgot my manners.”

So Clarissa and her friends went away, but Pamela, at Julia’s request,

stayed a little longer. Two or three other pleasant Radcliffe girls

dropped in, and she enjoyed their bright, informal conversation. She

found afterwards that to meet any one at Miss Bourne’s was sure to open

a pleasanter acquaintance than any casual introduction.

The memory of this Monday afternoon cheered her as she set the table

that evening, and waited on Miss Batson, and washed the dishes. Fate,

indeed, had been particularly kind to her, for Miss Batson, who was apt

to be absent-minded, had herself bought sugar that afternoon, forgetting

entirely that she had asked Pamela to get it.

X

DISCUSSIONS AND DISCUSSIONS

The Easter vacation had come and passed, and Pamela was pleased to find

herself again attending lectures. She had been a little lonely, for

almost all of her classmates had been away somewhere “for fun or for

clothes,” as Polly Porson put it. Polly and Clarissa had gone together

to New York, where the former had an aunt, and their talk now turned on

Art exhibitions, Waldorf musicales, and things of that kind. Julia,

yielding to her aunt’s entreaties, had fixed her mind more or less

attentively on clothes. Lois had had to put her own time and strength

into remodelling and shaping the lighter summer clothes. Whereas in

Julia’s case her greatest sacrifice of time came in the unescapable

“fittings” which she had to undergo at the dressmaker’s. Pamela had had

neither fun nor new clothes to console her in the vacation. She had been

unable to afford the trip to Vermont, and indeed she did not intend to

return home for the summer holidays, unless she should fail to find some

employment in vacation that would help her pay her expenses during the

next college year. Her one luxury through the recess had been frequent

trips to Boston. She had wandered to her heart’s content through the Art

shops, and she had spent many hours in the Art Museum. She had saved

car-fare by walking one way to Boston, and this exercise in itself had

probably been an advantage to her, as in winter she had had little time

for long walks. The fresh spring air as she walked along blew many

cobwebs from her brain. For Pamela was not of a hopeful temperament, and

she could not help wondering where she should get her income for the

coming year. Her aunt’s letters were not altogether cheerful. Between

the lines she could read that continued disapproval of her ambition for

a college degree. “If you had gone to the Normal School,” read one of

the letters, “you’d be almost ready now to take a school. Perhaps you

might have had a chance at the Academy. They say that Miss Smith is

going to be married.”

“They’ll feel better if I tell them that I’m likely to get a scholarship

at the end of another year. Oh, I do hope that I shall take second-year

honors! That will make the scholarship almost certain. If I could earn

fifty dollars above my expenses this summer, and if Miss Batson will

give me the same chance next year, why, I can certainly hold on until I

get a scholarship. Ah, me!”

The sigh was perhaps not to be wondered at, for Pamela saw clearly the

uphill road that lay before her. Sometimes she could not help

contrasting herself with Julia and Clarissa, and the others before whom

life seemed to spread out so delightfully. She listened with interest to

all that these lighter-hearted girls had to tell of their vacation

experiences, and she bent with redoubled energy to her work. May was at

hand, and nobody can be utterly down-hearted in May, with the trees

bursting into bloom, and the air growing softer and sweeter, and the

bright spring sun touching everything with gold, making even literary

Cambridge a pleasant place for the hundreds of students who cross the

Yard to the halls of Harvard, or walk through Garden Street to Fay

House. Yet despite spring sunshine, Pamela shrank into herself, and even

Julia could not drag her out of her routine.

“It isn’t right,” Clarissa remonstrated, “to think so much of Xenophon,

Plato, and Euripides. They may have been very able men, but to think of

them alone will make you one-sided.”

“If you had studied Greek you’d be less frivolous,” remarked Julia, as

Clarissa picked up a slip of paper with printed questions that fluttered

from one of Pamela’s books. Clarissa read aloud from the paper:

“‘IX. Write on the results, to logic and ethics, of the work of

Socrates, and the impression which it made on his contemporaries as

illustrated in “The Clouds.”’ Is it strange,” she commented, “that

Pamela is half in the clouds and here? ‘Write an account of the life and

professional activity of Lysias.’ It would be more seasonable to write

an account of the professional activity of the catcher on the Harvard

nine. Throw aside this foolish paper, Pamela! Why, the heading says,

‘Divide your time equally between Lysias and Plato.’ Your aunt in

Vermont ought to know about this.”

“Don’t crumple it,” cried Pamela, flushing under this badinage. “I save

all my examination papers; that was a mid-year.”

“To make a scrap-book?” queried Polly, who had joined the group. “Excuse

my smiles, but it seems so comical to care tenderly for examination

papers. Why, I tear mine up, and throw my blue-books into the fire.

Lecture notes are more entertaining. Clarissa’s, for example! Clarissa,

if your notes in History 100 should be published, they would contribute

greatly to the gaiety of nations. You must not let them fall into the

hands of the profane.”

The lecturer in History 100 had a rather original method in dealing with

his subject. His style was colloquial, and when in his opinion the

occasion demanded it, he used expressions that bordered pretty closely

on slang. Nevertheless, he had a fine command of his subject, and that

he was a valued member of the Faculty was shown by his standing near the

head of his department. That he shattered some of the idols that his

students had worshipped did not lessen the value of his teaching. After

expressing his own views fully (and sometimes jocosely), he would always

refer them to numerous books, by reading which they could inform

themselves on the other side of the subject. Although open, perhaps, to

some criticism from an academic point of view, Professor Z (for so he

was nicknamed from one of his most popular courses) was a stimulating

instructor, and his Radcliffe students set a high value on what they

learned from him.

Nevertheless, Polly and even the sedate Pamela were almost convulsed

with laughter as Clarissa read from her note-book what she claimed to be

one of Professor Z’s lectures. “Stage directions,” as Clarissa called

them, had been used very freely. “Here he frowned.” “At this point he

stroked his moustache and looked inexpressibly bored.” “At quarter-past

three he told us that he thought that Cromwell did not deserve any

further attention, at least from him, and that we’d all be happier for a

little respite from Puritanism. Whereupon he left us—fifteen minutes to

the better.”

“How would you like Professor Z to see your note-book?” asked Polly

mischievously.

“Why, I shouldn’t care. I never do behind any one’s back what I could

not just as well do before his face. The worst, I suppose, that he could

give me would be a ‘D;’ but I think, on the whole, that he would be

rather amused that I had had sufficient interest to take notes at once

so literal and so copious.”

“Yes, but don’t let that book fall into the hands of outsiders. They

might feel that we were not under sufficiently serious influences. You

New Englanders are so serious.”

“Julia’s the only New Englander here. You mustn’t be too severe,” said

Polly.

“No, indeed,” rejoined Clarissa; “but speaking of Jane—”

“Who spoke of Jane?”

“Well, _if_ we were speaking of Jane, it seems to me that we should all

say that she looks tired—too much work and no play. She’s something like

you, Pamela, only more so, though she has the excuse of being a Senior.

But speaking of Seniors (we really _were_ speaking of Seniors this

time), there’s Jane herself. Come, Jane,” and Polly raised her voice

slightly, that Jane, who was passing the door, might hear her.

It was after half-past four, and Polly, Pamela, and the others were

sitting in one of the vacant recitation rooms.

“Come, Jane,” said Polly, “we wish you to tell us why you have abjured

society of late. There have been several teas lately where you were

especially expected, which were remarkably desolate on account of your

absence.”

At this Jane looked uncomfortable. Was Polly making fun of her?

Julia’s more serious tones reassured her.

“Yes, tell us, Jane. Ruth and I had the special honor the other evening

of pouring chocolate at Professor Judson’s; his wife is some kind of a

cousin of Uncle Robert’s. But why weren’t you there? You belong to the

Philosophical Club.”

“Yes,” added Polly. “You _would_ have enjoyed meeting some of your

fellow sufferers from Harvard; there were several sedate youths among

them, Jane, exactly your style. The paper was most improving; every

social gathering in Cambridge has to be opened with a paper. Why weren’t

you there?”

“Clothes,” replied Jane laconically, smoothing the folds of her black

student gown.

“Oh, I suppose that you do not care to go where you cannot wear that

becoming cap and gown.

“Oh, Jane! oh, Jane! oh, Jane! oh, Jane!

Never did I think that you were so vain.”

Jane’s discomfort increased under Polly’s fusillade.

“I might be more comfortable in my cap and gown,” she retorted, “but

they would be as unsuitable as my brown merino in some places, and that

is the only best gown that I own.”

“I’m sure that it’s, it’s—”

“No,” said Jane gravely, as Julia stumbled; “no, it is neither beautiful

nor becoming. But it has been very useful to me this winter. I wear it

at our college functions with few qualms. It is only when I am invited

outside that I am disinclined to wear it.”

“Isn’t that rather foolish? In these days woman can be perfectly

independent about her clothes.” And Clarissa gave her curly head the

toss of independent “Young America.”

“No one can live entirely to herself, even in the matter of clothes,”

Jane explained. “If a hostess goes to the trouble and expense of

providing a pleasant evening for her friends, her guests should wear

festival attire. You are ‘asserting a false mood.’ Isn’t that what

Shaftesbury would say?” And she turned to Polly, who of all present

alone happened to be in her Philosophy class.

“Yes,” said Clarissa, “I agree with you there. I never could understand

why people in the East wear ugly clothes at times when they ought to be

in their best bib and tucker. When I am invited anywhere—which isn’t

often—I always try to wear something bright and cheerful.”

“The poster girl!” murmured Polly under her breath.

“I’d rather be called a poster girl than a mummy,” said Clarissa,

“though you, Jane, in your brown merino would be more welcome at some

functions than others I could name in purple and fine linen.”

“And I will wear my brown dress and never look too fine,” hummed Polly.

“You remember that Jennie Wren married Cock Robin, who seems to have

been a fairy prince among the birds. Every one knows that you are sure

of a _summa cum_, Jane Townall, so that you ought to be able to wear

what you like at any time.”

“I can’t speak for Jane,” interposed Julia, “but I am sure that in

accepting invitations we ought to think of what the hostess would like.

Don’t frown, Clarissa.”

“Oh, of course you are more in society than we are.”

“Nonsense, that isn’t fair,” replied Julia. “But college girls ought to

place themselves above the criticisms of those who do not look below the

surface.”

“One shouldn’t think too much of appearances. Who cares for

narrow-minded people? We must take the world as we find it.”

“I suppose so,” sighed Clarissa. “If I had worn a conventional Boston

costume, perhaps Mrs. Blair would not have gazed at me the other day as

if I were some newly discovered species. Next year I’ll appear out in—”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” cried Polly, “but let us do the proper

thing by putting the matter to the vote.”

“Resolved, that no Radcliffe student shall accept an invitation to a

festivity in Cambridge, or the adjoining suburb Boston, unless arrayed

in a becoming light gown.”

“Low-necked?” questioned Clarissa.

“Cream-white?” asked Jane with unwonted levity.

“Color and style to suit the complexion of the wearer,” replied Polly.

“Only no more dingy street gowns and hats at evening receptions.”

Though there wasn’t a dissenting voice, all knew that they were in

earnest to only a limited extent. Yet the discussion showed that dress

was a subject demanding some attention from even the busiest college

girl. It could not be dismissed with a word. “If a hostess fears that I

shall mortify her she needn’t invite me.” A busy girl naturally cannot

give much time to shopping and dressmakers. Often she has little money

to give to either. Yet by exercising care and taste, the girl with a

small purse can often work wonders. The world of college undergraduates

long since decided that there is no real connection between genius and

dowdy dress, and that the wearer of a well-fitting gown need not lack

mental ability.

There was some point to this discussion because invitations to affairs

outside of the immediate college now came occasionally to even the

quietest of the Freshmen. One or two of their professors invited them to

receptions. Some of the girls living at home in Cambridge or Boston

entertained more or less. In addition there were various college affairs

to which the outside world was invited, and those students who acted as

hostesses or ushers were especially conspicuous.

Simplicity was the keynote of most of the entertainments offered outside

of Radcliffe, as well as in the college itself. This was disappointing

sometimes to the occasional girl, conscious of her father’s wealth, who

had come to Cambridge expecting this wealth to count for as much in her

college life as it had counted at her own home. Yet no girl at Radcliffe

was ever so dull as not to discover speedily that plain living really

set the standard in Cambridge, and that any departure from simplicity

was really regarded as blamable rather than praiseworthy.

XI

EFFORTS TO HELP

Julia, one spring afternoon, waiting in Edith’s library for Edith to

return from down town, was in the midst of a conversation with Philip.

His woe-begone face might have made her laugh had she not fortunately

realized that one cannot long retain her influence over the person she

has laughed at.

“If she hadn’t written me herself,” Philip was saying, “I couldn’t have

believed it. It seems he’s a member of Parliament, too. Well, I may be

something myself sometime. She might have waited. I can’t fix my mind on

anything now, and I fancy mother and Edith will be disappointed when I

can’t get my degree.”

“What have they to do with it?” cried Julia. “I’m sure that they have

always encouraged you.”

“Why, if they hadn’t disapproved of Adelaide Cain, she might not have

been so heartless, and then I should be in better spirits now.”

“You can’t imagine,” said Julia, “that Adelaide Cain threw you over just

because your mother disapproved of her? She hasn’t the reputation of

being so conscientious.”

“How hard girls are to one another!” exclaimed Philip in his most

cynical tone.

“Nonsense! nonsense!” and Julia laughed. “I’m positive that in three

months you will rejoice that Miss Cain preferred some one else. But did

you mean what you just said about your degree?”

“Well, my degree is certainly awfully shaky. There was a scrape I was in

in my Freshman year. They kept me on probation, and they do not seem to

think that I have lived it down. Then I have two exams. to make up, one

I lost when I was sick and another I failed on, and some of my work this

year is a little uncertain. I’ve a good mind to cut it all now and

quit.”

“What! leave everything, without taking your degree? No, indeed, Philip,

you mustn’t do it!”

“Well, I’ve only a few weeks, and—and—well, I suppose that I might as

well make a full confession. I have a lot of debt hanging over me, and I

cannot tell my father.”

“Oh, Philip!” Julia threw a great deal of feeling into her tone. This

last trouble seemed much more serious than either of the other things of

which Philip had spoken. She felt that it was to his advantage that Miss

Cain had set him aside, and she knew that if he applied himself he could

make up his deficiencies in his studies. But a matter of money—she

hardly knew how to advise him.

“It’s three thousand dollars.”

“Three thousand dollars! An enormous sum for an undergraduate to owe.”

Although Philip had lately come of age, Julia knew that he had no money

of his own. She knew, too, that although Mr. Blair was liberal to his

children he had a strong dislike for debt. She wondered if he would come

forward and pay this for Philip.

“It’s an old debt,” said Philip. “It was made last year. Part of it is

money I really owe, but the greater part is on notes I endorsed for

Farlong.”

Julia had heard of Farlong. He was a law student from a distance, who

had made a great display for a year or two. Then the failure of his

father—a rather notorious stockbroker—had brought his college career to

a close.

“Yes,” continued Philip, “I was so foolish as to let Farlong invest a

little money for me. Of course I lost it, and more, too, than I put in.

Then Farlong lent me some money, and when the crash came I was

considerably in his debt. I’ve been able to renew the notes, but now

they have to be paid, and with interest the whole sum is three thousand

dollars. So you can see that I have enough on my mind just at present.”

As he talked Julia realized that she could not help him.

“The very best thing,” she said, “is for you to go at once to your

father. It’s a large sum, but for a year or two you can economize, and

it will be worth a great deal to get this load off your mind.”

“I don’t know,” and Philip sighed heavily, at the same time closing with

a snap the watch-case in which he carried the picture of Adelaide Cain.

Except for the danger of offending Philip, Julia would have liked to

laugh at his feeling for Adelaide Cain. Adelaide was a distant cousin of

his, several years his senior, who had been engaged several times. She

was fond of attention; and as her latest engagement had been broken off

the past summer, she had let Philip dance attendance upon her while she

was travelling with Mrs. Blair’s party in Europe. Philip had imagined

that she really cared for him, and had written her many letters after

his return. At last Miss Cain had announced her engagement to another.

Philip felt greatly aggrieved by this news. His self-love had been

injured. Yet, if he had been willing to admit it, his present discomfort

was caused by his money loss rather than by the loss of the friendship

of Adelaide Cain. But it relieved his feelings a little to complain of

the unkindness of this fickle young lady.

“Now make a clean breast of it to your father,” cried Julia in parting.

But Philip merely shrugged his shoulders.

June came in as a hot month, making harder the final examinations of the

year. There was hardly a Radcliffe girl who did not go about with a

wilted air, as if life had lost all its charm. The cool corners of Fay

House were occupied by students, and the beauty of the tree-shaded

streets and the flower-laden gardens was wasted on them.

Julia, Ruth, and even the discreet Pamela herself were no better than

their fellows in this matter of examinations. Pamela, indeed, was

especially nervous in her dread of falling below “A” in something. With

the hope of a scholarship before her, she felt that she could afford

nothing less than perfection. Julia and Ruth, coaching each other in

Latin and English, studied throughout long, fragrant evenings, when they

would infinitely have preferred sitting idly on Mrs. Colton’s little

piazza.

On her way from town one day as she stepped on the open car, Julia saw

Philip upon the running-board. He carried his dress-suit case, and in a

hurried glance Julia saw that he looked worn and tired.

“Why, what is it?” she asked, as he took a seat beside her.

“What is what?”

“Why, you have a very melancholy air.”

“I thought I told you that I had several things to worry me.”

“And I advised you to tell your father.”

“Well, I’ve told him. I’m going in town to tell him something else now,

and also to bid my mother and Edith good-bye. They sail for Europe

to-morrow.”

“To sail to-morrow? Why, how strange! They will miss your Class Day.”

“_My_ Class Day!” Philip laughed sharply. “_My_ Class Day! Why, I

haven’t any Class Day. I haven’t any Class, for that matter.”

Julia was almost overcome by what he had said. In the first place, she

found it almost impossible to realize that Edith was starting for Europe

without letting her know her plans—without bidding her good-bye. At

least at the first moment it had been very hard to understand this; if

Philip’s second statement should prove true, that he was to have no

Class Day, it threw some light on Edith’s departure. The car thundered

over Harvard Bridge; a fresh breeze blew from the river, and life seemed

a little better worth living than it had a half-hour before. Julia

looked down the river toward the city. Her eyes fixed themselves on the

tower of the old gaol, and on the streets that ran up the hill, until at

last they rested on the golden dome of the State House. The golden dome

seemed to burn itself into her brain, and whenever again she thought of

this interview with Philip it seemed to dance before her eyes.

“What do you mean, Philip, about your Class Day?”

“Why, just what I said. I’m going to throw it all up. I told you that if

I couldn’t straighten things out I wouldn’t stay. Well, I’ve slipped up

entirely on one of my examinations, and that has settled the question of

my degree. My father is beside himself, he is so disappointed. He’s

making a great fuss about that money, too. I suppose that he’ll pay it,

but I’m pretty sure that he wouldn’t pay any Class Day bills, too. So

that even if I could stay for my degree, I couldn’t have much fun Class

Day. I’m going to cut it all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I’m going to cut it all—Cambridge, College, everything.”

“But the Law School—you are coming back to the Law School?”

“No, indeed, I’ve had enough of study.”

Had Philip looked closely at Julia he might have noticed an involuntary

smile. It did not seem to Julia as if in the past few months Philip had

been overworked.

“Yes,” he continued, “I’m going on a ranch, or something of that kind.

Jim Devereux is out in Dakota, and he has always been asking me to come

out. I’ll go for the summer and see what chance there is for a fellow

out there.”

“But I can’t help thinking how disappointed your mother and Edith will

be. I know that Edith has set her heart on your Class Day. Why, her

dress is all ready. She wrote me about it the other day.”

“Well, she could wear it just the same if she weren’t going away. There

are others in the Class, and she has had invitations. But my mother

won’t stay. They’re going straight to London. Anyway, Edith isn’t really

out yet, and next year will be time enough for her Class Day.”

Philip’s tone made Julia think of the boy who whistled to keep his

courage up. They were near the Square.

“I hope I’ll see you soon,” she said, as Philip began to gather up his

belongings preparatory to leaving the car.

Philip paused for a moment, bending down to shake hands with her before

jumping off. “I am not quite sure,” he said hesitatingly. “I should like

to have a talk with you, but I am really going away at once.” Before she

could ask him when, he had swung himself down and was hastening toward

the Yard. He had murmured an explanation about an engagement, and Julia

had taken this as an apology for his leaving her so abruptly. As she

recalled the interview word by word, she wished that she might have had

a good talk with Edith. The next day was so hot that Julia went down to

Rockley for Sunday, and there, naturally enough, she found them all

talking of Philip’s failure to get his degree. “It all comes,” said Mr.

Barlow, “from letting a boy have his own way in everything. I suppose

that Philip has never had an ungratified wish. When his father was in

college students had to study. I know how it was, for we were in the

same class. But now—why, study is merely incidental. They elect this or

they elect that, and it is all a matter of whim.”

“So students were altogether perfect in your day, Uncle Robert,” said

Julia a little mischievously. “Then it wasn’t you who told me of a whole

class that was at least half expelled?”

“Rusticated, my dear, or suspended; not expelled,” responded Mr. Barlow

with a smile. “Oh, I dare say that we were not exactly perfect, but

then, you know boys will be boys.”

“Yes, but as I understand it, Philip hasn’t even been rusticated, and

still less expelled. It’s only that he can’t get his degree this year.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Barlow, “it seems to me that that is bad enough.”

“Oh,” interposed Brenda, “I shouldn’t wonder if he’d get it next year.

Philip always could get anything he wanted if he’d take the trouble.”

“It’s a pity that he hadn’t taken the trouble this year. Really, I

sympathize with his father. He has spent much money on Philip, and here

he sees him leave Cambridge with a kind of stigma, for that is what it

amounts to. I doubt that that ever happened to a Blair before. They may

never have been brilliant, but they’ve always had a respectable standing

in college. I don’t wonder that Mr. Blair is annoyed.”

“But Edith,” cried Brenda, “just think of Edith! She told me when she

came home last autumn that she was very tired of Europe, and here she is

dragged off again at a few days’ notice, and she wanted so much to have

a jolly Class Day. Even if Philip isn’t there she might manage to have a

good time. She has as many invitations as I have, and there are Tom

Hearst and Will Hardon and all the others whom she knows so well.”

“Remember, Brenda,” cried Mrs. Barlow warningly, “that you are going

this year only by special favor. You are a year younger than you ought

to be on your first Class Day.”

“I know it, I know it, mamma, but I shall enjoy it just as well as if I

were a year older. Besides, I shall go next year, too,” and Brenda

pirouetted several times around the piazza.

Later in the evening, as Julia sat on the piazza looking out at sea, at

the lamps revolving in the distant lighthouse and the moon rising from

the water, her thoughts still lingered with Philip. The moon, at first a

large crimson disk near the horizon, had been transformed into a smaller

golden sphere nearer the zenith, and still Julia sat there wondering if

Philip had left Cambridge, wondering if he would become a ranchman,

wondering if he would think it worth while ever to come back for his

degree.

Fay House, when Julia returned to it, had begun to take on its summer

expression. The finals were over, and the entrance examinations had not

begun. Very few girls were visible in the house, although there was a

double set on the tennis ground and a group watching the game. But

within there was an almost deathly stillness. The conversation room no

longer re-echoed to undergraduate quips and jokes, and the little brass

figures, appliquéed to the black wooden pillars of the mantle-piece as

Polly had described them, gazed on deserted chairs. The magazines and

periodicals were strewn untidily on the tables. Into this room Julia

wandered this Monday afternoon. She fingered some of the magazines idly

and then she turned toward the window. As she did so she gave a start,

for there in a chair with her handkerchief over her face was a girl.

Evidently she was asleep, for she did not stir as Julia drew near. The

sight of the Vermont girl there—for it was Pamela—seemed to Julia like

an echo of something that had happened. She remembered that it was in

this very corner of this very room she had found Pamela looking so

forlorn on the day of the first Idler reception. As she gazed at her

now, Julia realized that in her absorption of the past few weeks, with a

kind of unintentional selfishness, she had really hardly seen Pamela.

Indeed, she had scarcely thought of her. Julia’s approach wakened

Pamela, and as she pulled the handkerchief from her face, Julia noticed

that she looked worn and thinner than usual.

“How cool you look!” Pamela exclaimed, as Julia took her hand. Pamela

herself wore a stiffly starched shirt waist of rather clumsy cut, a high

linen collar, and a heavy woollen skirt. Julia, in an écru muslin

finished with a ruffle at the wrist and a soft ribbon at the neck,

appeared in contrast the picture of comfort.

“What are you going to do this summer, Pamela?” asked Julia suddenly.

She wondered if Pamela might not be worrying about the future. As the

latter seemed to hesitate over her reply, she added, “Why couldn’t you

come home with me to dinner, and then ride somewhere with me on the

electric cars, to Newton, or to Arlington, if that would suit you

better?”

“Oh, I wish that I could!” cried Pamela. “But you know I am busy still

at Miss Batson’s. Couldn’t you call for me after tea?”

“Yes, indeed. Will seven o’clock be too early?”

“Oh, I can be ready then, easily.”

Julia was prompt at the appointed hour, and before Pamela could

interpose she was warmly greeted by Miss Batson and introduced to three

of the boarders who were seated on the steps.

As they reached the car, Julia, with her arm in Pamela’s, said rather

brusquely, “You haven’t failed in your finals, have you?”

“Why, no! But why do you ask?” Pamela’s tone was one of extreme

surprise.

“Oh, I wished to startle you into telling me what troubles you.”

“Perhaps I am foolish,” responded Pamela, “but I’ve been wondering

whether it’s really worth while to go on. Perhaps I oughtn’t to come

back next year.”

“I suppose you haven’t had a mark below ‘B.’”

“I’ve had only one ‘B.’”

“And everything else was an ‘A’?”

“Yes,” she replied, “but I am afraid that you think me very conceited to

tell you.”

“Not when I asked you. Well, if the trouble isn’t marks, it must be

money. I should think that you might tell me just _what_ it is. You do

not look as well as you did when you entered, and you were not exactly

robust then.”

“I suppose it’s partly the hot weather,” responded Pamela, sighing.

“Then, besides, I’m pretty tired of Miss Batson and her household. I’m

glad that she is going to close her house this summer. Otherwise I might

be tempted to stay on—to save expense. She’s going to take the first

vacation she has had in years, and visit some relations in the West, and

she has been able to rent her house for three months.”

“Then I suppose that you will go up to Vermont for the summer?”

Pamela received this question in silence, and Julia saw that it had been

ill-advised. Thus for several minutes they rode on without speaking. The

cool air was refreshing; the electric lights here and there at the side

of the road threw strange shadows from the trees. There was a certain

pleasant weirdness in the scene.

Pamela was the first to speak. “I do not really wish to go up to

Vermont. They think that I ought to teach. They think that it is foolish

for me to continue at college when I might be earning. Besides, my

aunt’s house is crowded now, and there isn’t a room that I could have.

If I knew what I ought to do next year, I could tell better about this

summer.”

“Do next year?” repeated Julia. “Why, you wouldn’t think of doing

anything but come back to college—with _your_ record.”

If Julia had noticed Pamela’s smile, she would have known that its

wanness was not entirely the result of the flickering electric light.

Her voice, however, betrayed her.

“It may not be wholly a matter of choice.”

“But you’ve applied for a scholarship?” Julia realized now that the

question was a question of money.

“Yes, but I can’t know about it until the autumn. There are so few

scholarships and so many applicants.”

“I suppose that we ought to turn our faces homeward. It’s getting late,”

said Julia.

Then as they waited by the side of the road for the car bound

Cambridge-ward, Julia saw what she ought to do. During the ride she had

been pondering, and had it been any one but Pamela she would have made

an offer of direct help for the next college year. This would have meant

so little to her, and so much to the Vermont girl. But there was

something in Pamela—an independence of spirit in spite of her shrinking

demeanor—that prevented her doing this. Yet now as from a clear sky she

seemed to hear the echo of a speech that had actually fallen unheeded on

her ears a week or two before. It was the lamentation of a friend of

Mrs. Barlow’s who bewailed her young son’s deficiencies in Greek.

“It’s disgraceful that Teddy is so unwilling to study, and his father is

determined to have him enter with Greek. If I had my way he’d give it

up. Now I suppose that we shall have to have a tutor. It will be a

nuisance to have an extra man in the house, but I suppose it can’t be

helped. If it were anything but Greek I suppose that we might have a

woman, but as it is, I suppose that we must make the best of it.”

As this conversation came back to her, Julia wondered that at the time

she had not thought of Pamela. Possibly it was because the words had not

been addressed to her directly that they had made so little impression.

That very night she would write to Mrs. Hadwin, and if it was not too

late, she would do her best to get the position for Pamela.

“Pamela,” she whispered, after they had taken their seats in the

returning car, “Pamela, I feel almost certain that I can find something

for you to do this summer. If it isn’t the thing that I have in mind

this minute it will be something similar. I can’t say more at present,

but I wish that you would trust me and believe me entirely your friend.”

“Thank you, of course I trust you. You have been so kind ever since the

very first day. You remember my fountain pen?”

Both girls laughed at the remembrance.

“Because I’ve been so despondent this evening you mustn’t think that I

am always forlorn,” said Pamela, “only it is very hard sometimes for a

girl to work out things all alone, and I really have no one to advise

me.”

“Sometimes I feel very lonely, too,” said Julia; and as Pamela’s hand

touched hers in a mute response, she felt that they were now really

going to understand each other.

That very evening Julia wrote to Mrs. Hadwin, and so strong did she make

her case that before the end of the week all the arrangements had been

made, and Pamela was the engaged tutor for Teddy. Her term was to last

three months from the last week in June, and Pamela was to accompany the

family to the seashore. The change of air was in itself likely to be

good for Pamela, and Julia congratulated herself on the sudden thought

that had brought this piece of good luck to her friend.

“Yet if Pamela had not been able to show such a fine record for her work

in the classics, any effort of mine might have been perfectly useless.”

XII

HARVARD CLASS DAY

Had Jane Townall stayed in Cambridge until Commencement, Julia might

have had more interest in the Radcliffe Class Day. But illness in her

family had called Jane home as soon as her examinations ended.

“I am sorry not to get my degree from the hands of the President at

Commencement, but I’m glad to escape the flurry of Class Day. I really

could not afford the expense. I’m coming back, though, for my Ph.D.

sometime. I’ll take that in person.”

“There’ll be no Radcliffe Ph.D. next year, nor yet the year after,” said

Polly, shaking her head.

“Oh, it will be years before I return,” responded Jane cheerfully. “I

must save the money first. By that time women will be receiving the

Ph.D. from Harvard itself.”

“Doubt it!” cried Polly.

“Well, I’d come back cheerfully for the two years of graduate study,

even without the Ph.D. at the end.”

“I’m not with you there,” interposed Clarissa, who had joined the group.

“When I’ve earned a Ph.D. I’ll try to get it.”

“Then you wouldn’t have been a contented Annex graduate, with a

certificate instead of a degree, stating that you had received an

education the equivalent of that for which the degree of A.B. is given

at Harvard College.”

“Poor things!” replied Clarissa. “No, I couldn’t have borne all that

they bore. I’m not that kind of a pioneer.”

Jane had secured a fine position in an Indiana High School for the

coming year, and her regrets at leaving Cambridge were mingled with

pleasure at the prospect opening before her of having a fair income.

Julia and Ruth returned to Cambridge the day before Harvard Class Day.

As evening came they worried about a few overhanging clouds, yet when

Friday came, the girls, looking through the trees shading their window,

saw that it was a regular Class Day sky, blue, cloudless, while the air

coming in over the casement was warm and sultry.

“Julia,” cried Ruth at breakfast, “how _can_ you be so calm? I feel as

if I might be Brenda, I am so excited. I’ve always longed for a real

Harvard Class Day. I was only a little girl when my cousin Augustus was

a Senior, and I remember how I stood about and watched his sisters

dressing for his spread. Even a year in Cambridge hasn’t destroyed the

glamour surrounding the day. Yesterday, when I saw that the seats had

been put up around the Tree, I felt that the curtain was about to be

lifted from the show. You are too calm, Julia, you really are, and you

have such a lovely dress!”

“It is no lovelier than yours, Ruth. Come to my room when you are

dressed; I am very anxious to see it on you.”

The girls were now on their way upstairs, and when a half-hour later

Ruth entered Julia’s room, each girl gave an exclamation of delight. A

third person might have found it hard to tell which dress was the more

beautiful, Julia’s white organdy, with its rows and rows of tiny

lace-edged ruffles, or Ruth’s yellow muslin worn over a pale yellow

slip. Ruth was a brunette with Irish blue eyes, and her yellow gown and

leghorn hat with yellow crush roses was very becoming. Julia’s white hat

had a pink lining, and was very becoming to her rather colorless type.

“You look like a white rose just touched with pink,” exclaimed Ruth, in

a rather unwonted vein of poetry.

The two girls walked in a leisurely fashion to Fay House, where,

according to the arrangements made by Mrs. Barlow, Toby Gostar, Nora’s

younger brother, met them to escort them to Memorial Hall. Here in the

Chapel Brenda and Nora and Mrs. Barlow were waiting.

“We were so afraid that you would be late,” cried Brenda as they

approached. “You know that our tickets won’t be good for anything after

half-past ten. The doors are opened to the public then.”

“As it is now only quarter-past ten, Brenda, your anxiety was rather

misplaced, but as we are now all here we can hasten to our seats.”

Mrs. Barlow, gathering up her voluminous skirts, marshalled her

quartette to the narrow wicket gate through which so many, many

thousands of persons have entered Sanders Theatre, and up the broad

stairs into the great amphitheatre. Toby stayed behind to take his

chances with the ticketless throng, crowding around the outer door.

“It’s like a garden,” said Ruth, gazing about on the rows of seats

rising tier above tier, filled for the most part with young women and

girls, whose light gowns and flower-trimmed hats gave the place the

aspect of a flower garden.

There were mothers there, of course, or an occasional father; but on the

whole the great interior was given up to girls, who fanned themselves

and listened to the orchestra, and wondered if it wasn’t almost time for

the Class to appear. Very promptly at eleven o’clock the Class _did_

appear, fresh from the service in Appleton Chapel and the breakfast at

the President’s. The Marshals led the way, one of whom was Philip’s

friend, Tom Hearst; and as the rest of the Seniors in cap and gown

followed closely and took their places in the seats on the floor, every

girl in the theatre tried to identify her own brother or cousin or

friend.

“It does seem too bad about Philip,” and Nora leaned over toward Julia;

“besides, if he hadn’t failed so, Edith would have been here. Just think

of her near England at this very minute, when she ought to have been

here.”

“I dare say that she is more comfortable at this very minute than we

are. Only imagine how refreshing an ocean breeze would be blowing over

our heads.”

“Oh, Julia, how terribly matter of fact you are!”

Julia’s feelings, however, were deeper than her jesting words implied.

In the group below, as she recognized one after another of Philip’s

friends, she realized how much he was losing. There is only one Class

Day for each undergraduate; and although he may make up scholastic

deficiencies, and get his degree with some other class, if he loses his

Class Day, something has gone that can never be made up to him.

So although Julia listened to the Oration with its review of the Class

history and its promises for the future, although she gazed with

admiration at the fluent Poet whose lofty lines were delivered in a

rather feeble voice, although she laughed at the witticisms and local

hits of the Ivy Oration (without always seeing the force of the joke),

her thoughts sometimes were wandering far away. Indeed, it is to be

feared that the last part of the Oration was lost upon her, for when the

Class rose in a body to sing the Class Ode to the air of “Fair Harvard,”

she was surprised to find that the first part of the Class Day programme

was ended. Of course, like many others, Nora and Brenda and Julia and

Ruth lingered to scan the scattering throng for familiar faces.

Naturally, too, Tom and Will and other Seniors whom they knew came up to

shake hands with them, and receive their congratulations on having

reached this point in their career; and naturally, too, these same young

men escorted Mrs. Barlow and her charges first to the “Pudding” spread

(where nothing resembling pudding was to be had, except, perhaps, the

ice called frozen pudding), and then from the “Pudding” to one or two

private spreads, and then—why, then before they knew it it was four

o’clock, and every one was wondering if it wasn’t almost time to go to

the Tree. Where had the day gone?

“Ah, here you are!” exclaimed a cheerful voice, as Nora and Julia stood

on the lawn of Wadsworth House, a little tired, a little the worse for

wear, holding their empty plates, and wondering how they had managed to

lose sight of Mrs. Barlow and Brenda and Ruth.

“Oh, papa!” cried Nora, for the cheerful voice belonged to Dr. Gostar.

“Oh, papa, I didn’t know that you were coming out. How delightful! Are

you going to the Tree? But there, I suppose that you haven’t a ticket;

they’re so very hard to get.”

“Ticket!” and there was genuine merriment in Dr. Gostar’s laugh. “Why,

you are forgetting who I am. I’m a graduate, and Class Day belongs

partly to the graduates. At least, the Tree part of it does.”

“Oh, then we’ll see you there. What fun!”

“You’ll hear me certainly. Really, I ought to be saving myself now for

the cheering. But I met Mrs. Barlow just outside; she had to go with

Brenda and Ruth to Matthews for a little while. Elmer Robson was with

them; there was something in his room that he was anxious to show

Brenda. Mrs. Barlow felt that she could go when I promised to take you

under my wing. We are to meet in Stoughton, where Will Hardon has a room

looking out on the Tree.”

“But I thought that his rooms were in Holworthy?”

“So they are. But he thought that it would be pleasant for his guests to

have a room to rest in before going to the Tree and near it. By the way,

we have no time to spare,” looking at his watch. “If you are ready,

young ladies, I shall be happy to escort you, although I’m rather

surprised that you haven’t some younger cavalier.”

“Well, papa, we have had, but you see the Seniors have all gone off now

to dress for the Tree, and even Toby, after he had gone with us to one

or two spreads, seemed to grow restless. I suppose he thinks there’d be

more fun with some of his classmates. There are a few undergraduates

hanging about on the outskirts of things.”

“I hope that he hasn’t neglected you.”

“Oh, no, indeed”—Julia was the speaker—“oh, no indeed, he has been

remarkably entertaining. He pointed out all kinds of amusing college

personages, and cleared the way for us through several crowds, and saw

that our plates were heaped with ices, and altogether has been very

helpful.”

“He really has, papa,” added Nora. “You see the Seniors can pay little

attention to any single person, they have so many to look after. It’s

the greatest fun to see them trying to be equally attentive to half a

dozen persons at once when all the time they’re dying to talk to some

one person by herself. Even Will Hardon, who seldom is disturbed, was

half beside himself. He hadn’t had a chance for a word with Ruth, and

wherever he was to-day there were three tall, thin cousins of his from

New York who wished to know about everything and to see everything, and

who hardly left his side for a moment. I think that Ruth was

disappointed, too.”

“Why, Nora!” and Julia shook her head in disapproval. But Dr. Gostar was

too much absorbed in the scenes in the Yard to notice this speech of

Nora’s.

“Why, papa, you seem to see a great many people you know.”

“I certainly do, daughter; that is one of the charms of Class Day.

Presently I may run upon some old classmate whom I have not seen for

twenty-five years. He is here escorting his daughters; and although my

head is gray, and his may be bald, we shall rush into each other’s arms

and—”

“Why, who is he, papa?” cried Nora, without realizing that she was

interrupting.

“Oh, I haven’t the least idea; the particular man does not matter. It

will be some one with whom I can renew my youth. Why, if it wasn’t for

Class Day some of us old fellows would forget that we had ever been

young.”

“Why, papa, nobody considers you old. I heard Mrs. Everlie the other day

call you a perfect boy.”

“I certainly feel like one to-day, escorting two fair damsels through

the College Yard.”

“Oh, listen! listen!” cried Julia, as the sound of gruff huzzas came to

them.

“They have begun to cheer the buildings; you know that that is the

ceremony,—a pause before each old building, and a loud cheer for it,—the

Seniors’ farewell to Harvard.”

They had now almost reached Stoughton, pushing their way through the

crowd. On the steps of University Hall and other buildings, rows of

people were seated, who evidently were mere sight-seers, without any

real connection with the Class. There were small boys and girls among

them, and men and women in holiday dress, evidently sight-seers from the

City. In the throng hurrying across the Yard there were now a good many

undergraduates, and anxious chaperons trying to collect their charges,

and pretty girls in delicate dresses hurrying toward the Tree enclosure.

From the door of Stoughton Dr. Gostar and his party hastened upstairs to

the upper room which had been secured for them. It was a large, square,

old-fashioned room, furnished rather more simply than those occupied by

Philip and Will in Holworthy, and it was far plainer than the elegant

apartments of Tom Hearst in Claverly.

As the others had not yet arrived, Julia and Nora tiptoed around,

looking at the curious gray and blue steins on the mantle-piece, the

fencing foils and masks on the wall, the two or three old colored prints

of stage coach and sporting scenes.

“Hm, hm,” cried Nora, “whoever he is, the classics do not occupy all his

time. Just look at those membership certificates; he seems to belong to

every athletic society in the college. And his books, where are his

books?”

“Why, here,” cried Julia, “on this shelf behind the door. There are a

whole dozen of them;” and Nora, stepping forward, read off their titles,

which proved, by the way, to be the titles almost entirely of college

text-books.

“But, my dear, you mustn’t expect them all to be book worms; it takes

every kind of individual to make up a college, just as in the outside

world,” remonstrated Dr. Gostar in answer to Nora’s gibes at the

non-literary taste of the owner of this room.

Before more could be said, Mrs. Barlow and Ruth and Brenda appeared,

attended by Toby and another undergraduate, who was introduced as the

owner of the room. The latter was a mild-mannered, young-looking Junior,

not at all the athletic individual—at least in appearance—whom the girls

had pictured from the trophies and other adornments of the room.

“There, Mrs. Barlow, I hand my charges over to you,” and Dr. Gostar

hurried off to join the Alumni around the Tree. In a few minutes Mrs.

Barlow and the others followed, leaving the room in Stoughton to some

other guests of Will’s, who were to watch the Tree exercises from the

windows.

Already the throng in the Yard was crowding toward the Tree enclosure,

and the ticket holders had hard work to thread their way among curious

by-standers. Within the enclosure the sun beat down hotly, except in one

corner where the brick walls of the neighboring buildings cast a shade.

Following the boys, Mrs. Barlow and the girls scrambled up over the

rough wooden benches,—“just like circus seats,” said Nora,—and at last,

a little out of breath, and with many apologies to those whom they

disturbed in their progress, they reached their own places.

Now, although Brenda and her friends did not then realize it, these Tree

exercises were to have a peculiar interest from being almost the last

under the walls of Stoughton. The space was too limited for the

thousands who felt that they had a right to be spectators, and already

plans were making for a change of place and a somewhat different

performance.

As the Alumni came in, taking position some distance from the Tree, the

girls caught sight of Dr. Gostar and two or three sedate Bostonians of

his age seating themselves on the grass, and looking as cheerful and

merry as the youngest undergraduate there. The Alumni had marched within

the enclosure with a band of music at the head, and then had followed

the Freshmen, with the Sophomores second and the Juniors last. Each

formed a separate circle around the Tree, and when the signal was given

all rose and cheered lustily for every college official from the

President to John the Orangeman. The Chief Marshal, a tall, handsome

fellow, led the cheering, and at last at a given signal the students in

each circle, joining hands, whirled at a mad rate around the Tree. When

they had sung the Class Ode, the Marshal threw his hat against the Tree,

and then the wild scramble for the flowers began. It was difficult for

those who knew them best to recognize their especial Seniors in the

shocking bad clothes and old hats that they wore. But many a mother,

when she discovered her boy, was sure that he must come away with broken

limbs, if he escaped alive from the wild scrimmage. They pommeled one

another, formed themselves into human ladders, flung one another off

from the sides of the Tree. Yet strange to say, no one received serious

injury, and the few who reached the glowing wreath were loudly cheered,

even by those who thought the whole affair rather brutal. Those who

stripped the wreath from the Tree flung the fragments down among their

classmates, and in the end nearly every one had a flower or two as a

memento. As Tom and Will pressed through the crowd with fairly large

bouquets—at least they could be seen by Brenda and her friends—the girls

wondered if any of the trophies should pass to them. While they stood

for a moment waiting a chance to pass down to the Yard, Mrs. Barlow

pointed out one distinguished person after another among the spectators

at the Tree, including the British Minister, the Secretary of the Navy,

the Governor of New York, and innumerable literary and professional men

of note. Many of them undoubtedly were there as relatives of Seniors,

and some probably found it a distinction to be the father of a boy who

was the idol of his class for this thing or that,—athletics and social

graces sometimes ranking ahead of scholarship.

When Will and Tom reached Mrs. Barlow’s group their flowers were rather

impartially distributed among the four, and the boys hurried on to array

themselves in proper Senior garb. They all met again at the Beck spread,

and from that they went to one or two smaller teas, sitting in windows

that overlooked the quadrangle until the Yard had been illuminated.

“Fairyland only faintly describes it,” said Julia, looking at the

wonderful labyrinth of lanterns and colored lights shining above the

crowds in gay attire threading the paths, or seated on the grass.

Julia was loath to leave the scene even for a glimpse of the dancers in

Memorial and the Gymnasium. When an opportunity therefore came for her

to go back to the rooms in Holworthy under Toby’s protection, she was

glad enough to go. She was a little tired now, and did not sit in the

window, and when Toby seemed restless, she advised him to go back to

Memorial, as she would be perfectly comfortable in the easy-chair that

he had drawn up for her. She added that she would not be at all lonely.

Hardly had Toby left her when a familiar voice fell on her ear.

“Toby told me that you were in here, Julia, but where are you?”

Julia rose from the easy-chair, the deep back of which hid her from

view.

“Why, Philip! How in the world do you happen to be here? I thought—”

“No, I haven’t actually left this part of the world. I’ve been down to

the shore for a day or two getting my things together. I’m off to-night

by the midnight train. But I couldn’t resist a glance at Class Day.

Besides,” a trifle less defiantly, “I thought that I might see you,

Julia.”

“Oh, yes,” replied Julia, “we’re all here, Ruth and Brenda and Nora;

they’ll be coming back from Memorial after a while.”

“Oh, I’ll be out of the way before that. I made Toby swear not to say a

word about me. No, I didn’t expect really to see any one, though I hoped

that I might run across you.”

“I’m awfully sorry that things have gone badly with you, but next year—”

“No, I’m not coming back next year, nor am I going to cry about spilled

milk. What’s the good? Nobody really cares what becomes of a fellow. Of

course a family is mortified when he doesn’t get his degree, and I’ve

had it heavy enough from my father for the money he’s had to put up for

me. But you are a sensible girl, Julia, and I’ve wanted to tell you that

in many ways you’ve done me a lot of good. Sometime, perhaps, I may show

you that I’ve profited by some of your advice.”

“I’ve never given you any real advice.”

“Indeed you have. Of course I’ve had it from other people, too. But

you’ve said some things that really have made an impression. But there,

what’s the use of talking? Sometime you’ll see that I’m not as black as

I’m painted. So now I must be off, for I’ve some things to attend to in

the Square, and I don’t want the others to find me here. There’d be such

a beastly lot of explaining,” and so with a sudden farewell, Philip

hurried out of the room. Julia, looking from the window, followed him

for a moment until he was lost in the crowd. At this moment the Glee

Club, stationed on the green, sang “Fair Harvard,” and Julia wondered if

the pathetic music struck Philip’s ears with the sadness with which it

fell on hers.

Not long after this Mrs. Barlow and the girls appeared. The latter were

by no means ready to go home, tired though they were after their long

day. But Mrs. Barlow was firm; and in spite of the protests of Tom and

Will and one or two others, they left the Yard before half-past ten.

XIII

VARIOUS AMBITIONS

The summer passed quickly away, as vacations have a fashion of doing,

even when one is young, and Julia and Ruth and Polly and Clarissa and

Lois and all the other college friends met again in October, well and

happy. Polly had been at Atlantic City, Clarissa had joined her family

at the White Mountains, Pamela had been on the South Shore with her

pupil, Nora had spent the summer in Maine. Lois alone of this group of

friends had had practically no change of scene; she had stayed in Newton

all summer, and yet she returned to college looking as bright as any of

the others. Julia’s summer does not form properly a part of her

Radcliffe days, and yet it is only fair to say that Julia’s summer had

been somewhat different from what might have been prophesied in June.

The first weeks had been spent in attendance on her Aunt Anna, who had

fallen ill with a slow fever in the early spring. When she was better

the doctor had ordered a complete change of air, with the result that

Mr. and Mrs. Barlow and the two girls had made a tour of the British

Provinces. Coming back to college from so many points of the compass,

the Sophomores all had naturally much to tell. They registered

themselves promptly on the first Thursday of the term; they chose their

electives and changed their minds as often as the authorities would

permit. They studied the notices on the bulletin board and the schedule

of recitations, and advised one another in tones much more confident

than a year ago. They did their part at the Freshman reception to make

the incoming class feel perfectly at home, and they began to develop a

class spirit. Now “class spirit” is something which had only just begun

to develop at Radcliffe, and indeed at this time some of the upper class

girls, absorbed in their work, were disinclined to believe that it had

an existence. Different things were contributing to this class feeling.

One was the increasing interest in athletics. Each class had its basket

ball team and its own athletes, or gymnasts as perhaps we ought to say,

in whose triumphs it took a genuine pride. Clarissa had come to the

front as one of the best athletes of her class, and the Sophomores with

her help expected to lead in the spring meet. Julia, too, found herself

suddenly conspicuous from a very simple thing, or at least it seemed

simple to her. She had always had some talent for musical composition,

and had studied Composition before entering Radcliffe. But the course in

Harmony under the distinguished head of the Music Department had been a

revelation to her, and she had begun to venture on little flights of her

own. One of her songs, a setting of William Watson’s, “Tell me not now,”

Polly had picked up as it lay in manuscript on her desk. Now Polly had a

sweet, bird-like voice, and she rushed to the piano and trilled off:

“Tell me not now, if love for love

Thou canst return,

Now while around us and above

Day’s flambeaux burn.

Not in clear noon, with speech as clear,

Thy heart avow,

For every gossip wind to hear;

Tell me not now.”

Julia herself, as she listened, found her own music more interesting

than she had imagined it. Polly, when she had finished, turned around

with an amused expression:

“Well, well, I am perfectly surprised that you are so sentimental, Julia

Bourne.”

“Oh, nonsense!” responded Julia, “but you sing it like an angel.”

“Yes,” said Polly, “this time I’ll accept the compliment without

protest, for with your leave (or without it) I’m going to sing this at

the next Idler. I’ve been asked to sing something, and I’ll take care to

let every one know that you are the composer of this sentimental ode.

You! the stern person who used to frown on me last spring when I wanted

to go to Riverside on canoe expeditions that meant a _solitude à deux_.

Ah, Julia, this song shows that you are human like the rest of us;” and

Polly held high above her head the manuscript that Julia tried to seize.

Thus Julia made her first appearance before her fellow-students as a

composer, for Polly sang “Tell me not now” with great effect that Friday

afternoon; and Julia, who hitherto had had comparatively few

acquaintances outside of her special set, now found herself an object of

interest to the whole club.

“The next thing,” said Ruth, with genuine pride in Julia’s triumph, “the

next thing we’ll have you composing an operetta.”

“Nonsense!” cried Julia. “An operetta! I couldn’t do it.”

“Why not? Three or four operettas have been composed and given by

Radcliffe girls with great success. Why, I came out with my mother the

year ‘A Copper Complication’ was given, and I never saw anything more

entertaining in my life. What one girl can accomplish another can, I

mean if she has the same kind of talent. Why, there have been several

Radcliffe operettas—‘Princess Perfection,’ ‘A Copper Complication.’”

The urgings of Polly and Ruth, however, might not have led Julia to take

up the work had not the Emmanuel Society needed funds. It had committed

itself to assist in maintaining a reading-room at the North End for

working girls, and its expenses had been heavier than the first

estimates. In no way could money be so readily raised as through an

operetta, and as Julia was especially interested in this Society, she at

last consented to see what she could do.

“For any one with talent like yours it isn’t so very hard,” said Polly

persuasively. “Ruth and I will help you with the book, and then you must

have some good soprano solos—for me—and some manly contralto solos,

probably for Clarissa, if we can only get her to take them; and then

there must be a soubrette song or two—we’ll find the soubrette, and

there must be a man’s funny part, like Charles River, the ‘winter man’

in ‘A Copper Complication,’” and Polly spun round the room, singing:

“Now since men are always busy in this lovely summer time,

I get my little innings when I can,

As I wanted to offset a bit the summer girl’s éclat,

I call myself a winter man.

I drive out, I dine out at functions divine,

At parties I dance with the belle of the ball.

It is in the winter I have my good time.”

“Oh, no indeed!” interrupted Ruth. “Julia’s opera will have no frivolous

Charles River. Her hero, I’m sure, will be a most serious person with

high purpose.”

“And a low voice, that is, low for an alto,” cried the irrepressible

Polly.

“There,” said Julia, smiling, “as my part is to be so small, I need not

have hesitated about undertaking it. You are arranging for the words and

the speakers, and the music is only—”

“Now, Julia, of _course_ the _music’s_ the thing, the chief thing, but

there’s a certain type of song that’s taking, and we have to think what

will best suit our prima donnas, when once we have secured them. You

have no idea how shy they are. I shouldn’t care to be the business

manager of this affair,” and Polly flung herself on the couch, while the

others laughed at her affected melancholy.

Yet in spite of this badinage, the girls of Julia’s group, as well as

some others with special literary or dramatic talent, began to work for

the success of the operetta. The music was left entirely to Julia; but

the libretto, or “book” as they all preferred to call it, was to be a

composite production. The sentimental lyrics were nearly all assigned to

Ruth; the comic words for the most part grew. Girls are more considerate

than boys. Their jokes are seldom “grinds” on the professors, and they

are even fairly tender toward the various branches of a college

curriculum. The gibes, therefore, of Radcliffe plays were more apt to be

directed toward local faults, such as muddy sidewalks and dusty streets.

Yet after all, the operetta was entirely secondary to regular college

work. Hardly a girl in Julia’s class sought the name of “grind,” and few

deserved it. The absence of the dormitory system, the very fact that

many Radcliffe students reside with their parents while attending

college, makes for a normal life in which home interests and society

have their place as well as study. This is as it should be, and is not

to be criticised unless a girl assumes too many social duties in

addition to her college obligations.

The autumn calendar was marked by several events of special significance

to the Sophomores. Not the least of these was the class election, in

which Julia and Ruth took more part than in that of the preceding year.

There happened to be in their class about twenty girls from a large

preparatory school,—a public High School,—and these girls had been a

power at the Freshman elections. Indeed, so certain was their ticket to

be elected that the rest of the class had put up few candidates. By this

second autumn, however, the situation had changed somewhat. Girls like

Julia and Ruth, who had entered with none of the advantages of a backing

of comrades, were now pretty well known. The Freshman Class President

proved unpopular, and had shown so little special ability that not even

her personal friends favored her re-election. Several were anxious to

have Clarissa a candidate, and the friends of Annabel Harmon intended to

put her up. Somewhat to Julia’s surprise she found Ruth favoring

Annabel. The latter had been a Special, until late in the year she had

become a Freshman. Annabel was a pleasing girl, able to talk eloquently

on any subject,—so eloquently that those who looked beneath the surface

sometimes doubted her knowledge of the things she talked the most about.

Julia, reproaching herself for unfairness, disliked having Ruth so

intimate with Annabel.

Julia championed Clarissa as a candidate, because she saw that the

Western girl was a born leader, and because she admired her frank, open

nature.

“I object to Clarissa,” Ruth had said, “because she makes so many

foolish jokes. She doesn’t seem to me to represent the class properly.

Now, Annabel is always dignified, and college girls are so criticised

that one who is conspicuous ought to be conventional.”

Julia perceived that Ruth was already under Annabel’s influence. She was

a year or two older than the average Freshman. This was not due to lack

of ability, but to her having decided rather late on a college course.

She had entered at the beginning of February—just after the mid-years in

the winter before Ruth and Julia entered Radcliffe. She was rather proud

of having become a regular Sophomore: and indeed for a girl of Annabel’s

rather indolent disposition, this was something to be proud of. Only a

girl of her egotism would have aspired so early in her career to become

Class President. Julia felt almost positive that Annabel could not

succeed, but Annabel herself knew better. She had begun to work for the

office the preceding year. What had been the meaning of the little

luncheons that she had given from time to time, to which she had bidden

not only her intimates, but those girls most likely to be of use to her?

As she was not a Freshman then, they may not have suspected her motives;

but the little luncheons, and the lending of valuable books, and the

flattering letters written at just the right time, and, above all, a

manner which said to each one to whom she was talking, “You really are

the cleverest girl in the class, and I wish that other people had the

good sense to find it out,”—all these things had done their work; and

when the ballots were counted, Miss Harmon was President, and Clarissa

Herter had no office. Ruth had been the only candidate for Secretary,

and the office of Vice-President had gone to a Latin School girl. It

couldn’t be said that there was much feeling over the election, or

anything approaching dissension. Yet two or three who, like Julia, were

dissatisfied felt that Annabel did not deserve so marked an honor. The

sharper-sighted had seen too much of her wire pulling. Nevertheless, a

little later when the Sophomores had their class luncheon, even those

who did not especially like her had to admit that Annabel made a

charming presiding officer, and as toast mistress (though the toasts

were drunk only in cold water) she was, as the newspapers might have

said, “particularly felicitous.”

Soon after the class luncheon the Sophomores gave the Freshmen a dance

in the Auditorium. Although girls danced with girls and no masculine

person was present (except the youth who assisted in moving the

furniture), all said that they had enjoyed it as much as if it had been

a co-educational affair (this was Clarissa’s general term for the

occasional affairs in which Harvard and Radcliffe students mingled).

Even Pamela was seen in some of the square dances, with a pretty little

Freshman. The principles of the little Freshman as well as her ignorance

of waltzing prevented her dancing anything but the lancers and Portland

fancy. So while the others were whirling in the waltz, or leaping

through some of the more modern dances, Pamela and the Freshman, in

Clarissa’s words, “carried on a desperate flirtation.”

Prosperity had agreed with Pamela; she looked stronger, and her cheeks

had more color than formerly. Although she still lived at Miss Batson’s,

and although the loud colors of the furniture and the loud manners of

the boarders still grated on her nerves, she found the work that she had

to do less burdensome than in her Freshman year. The money earned by her

summer of tutoring sufficed to pay more than half the tuition fee of her

Sophomore year; and to keep her young pupil up to the mark, she had been

engaged to go to him twice a week during the school year. Thus all her

tuition fees were more than provided for. Although she had not secured

the scholarship on account of the number of competitors, an allowance

had been made her by the Students’ Aid Society. She could thus see that

she could make both ends meet for the year, and as to the future, she

felt sure that she could provide for that when the time came. Pamela,

though always independent and persevering, since coming to Cambridge had

acquired a hopefulness formerly unknown. To this extent, if in no other

way, she had felt the broadening influence of Radcliffe,—or shall we say

of the great University under whose shadow lies the woman’s college?

At the Open Idler, Pamela wore a pretty pale pink gown of soft veiling,

simply made, but extremely becoming. Julia found it hard to get Pamela

to accept this simple gift. She had thought at first of a subterfuge, of

pretending that the gown had been made for her, and that because of the

dressmaker’s mistake she had had to discard it. But on second thought

she decided that frankness was the best. When she found that Pamela had

decided not to go to the Idler because she had no suitable gown, she

brought forward the one that she had had made.

“How pretty it is! What an exquisite color, and so simple!”

“Yes,” Julia had responded, “and it is for you! I had it made because I

knew that you couldn’t possibly attend to anything so frivolous, with

all that you have to do this year. If you do not wear it, it shall hang

in my closet until the moths eat it. Come try it on!”

So almost before she realized what she was doing, Pamela had arrayed

herself in the pretty, soft, clinging gown, and as she looked in the

long mirror she hardly recognized herself. “If I could pay for it,” she

murmured, “if you would let me.”

“Why, yes,” responded Julia, “certainly, in five years or twenty years,

whenever you can do it as well as not, I shall be happy to let you pay

for it. Of course I would rather make it a present. But if you prefer, I

will accept payment for it any time after five years—not before. That

will be so much clear gain for me. For if you should not take the gown

it would hang in my closet until the moths had made way with it.”

“Oh, Julia, what nonsense!” And then Pamela, though seldom voluble,

expressed her gratitude very warmly. Hoping to pay for it in the future,

she was very glad to accept the gown; and Julia, observing Pamela so

perfectly at ease,—such wonders will good clothes work,—felt more than

repaid for her forethought.

This Open Idler of their Sophomore year happened to be the first one for

Julia and Ruth. They had not sent many cards of invitation, but a few of

their friends came out from Boston, and pushed their way through crowds

of gaily gowned girls to the large room where the Sophomores received

their friends. Among these were Nora and her mother.

“I’m not sure, Julia, that it is safe to bring Nora here. Already she

has begun to talk about coming to college, and what I have seen here

to-night makes college life seem too attractive.”

“But why ‘too attractive’?”

“Ah, Julia, I am one of those old-fashioned persons who cannot quite see

the wisdom of a college education for girls. Of course I would not wish

Nora to consider her education finished simply because she has left

school. Indeed, I have had her continue several of her studies; but she

owes something to society, and college cuts a girl off so from social

life.”

“But we have social life here—and masculine society, too,” she concluded

with a smile.

“Yes, indeed,” responded Mrs. Gostar, glancing around the room, in which

Harvard students were almost as numerous as Radcliffe girls. Standing in

corners, seated on divans, walking toward the refreshment tables, were

youths and maidens enjoying one another’s society to the same extent as

if in a crowded ball-room. The walls were bright with orange and white

festoons,—the class colors. A touch of crimson twined across the end of

the room where the year of the class was inscribed showed the connection

with Harvard. Rugs on the floor, tall palms in the corners, great vases

of primroses, and bands of yellow ribbon on the refreshment tables, had

transformed the plain recitation room into a bower of beauty. Each class

had a room to itself, similarly decorated, and there was one for the

Specials. Downstairs the officers of the Idler, the Dean of the college,

and the Secretary received the guests, who were introduced individually

by ushers. There was a table with refreshments in the parlor; there were

refreshments and an orchestra in the Auditorium; there were, as Polly

said, “tête-à-têtes unlimited” in the Library and in the recitation

rooms; and any one whose knowledge of Radcliffe was obtained first

through an “Open Idler” would have pronounced it the most frivolous of

institutions.

Tom Hearst, now in the Law School, and one or two other friends of

Philip’s accepted the invitations sent them by Ruth and Julia. The

latter would have liked to ask some questions about Philip, for not a

word had come to her directly since that Class Day evening. He was in

her thoughts constantly, but she would not say a word.

XIV

IN DISGUISE

“Learned Sophomores! full of information,

‘Yes, we know it all,’ your manner seems to say.

Learned Sophomores! In each generation,

Sophomores will be Sophomores in the same old way.”

Thus under her breath Clarissa, from her seat in the Auditorium, hummed

a strain from a Radcliffe song. Girls were gathering in the room to

witness an Idler play.

“Sometime,” said Clarissa, “I’ll be a Senior, and have a front seat. But

if you can’t have the first, the fifth row isn’t so very bad.”

While waiting for the play to begin, the girls in Clarissa’s

neighborhood chatted gaily. The play had attracted many of the Alumnæ,

because it was the work of a Radcliffe girl who had been out of college

a year or two. They waited a little impatiently, for the Auditorium was

really overcrowded, with girls sitting on the steps and leaning on the

ledges of the windows leading into the conversation room.

“Oh, I do wish that they would begin!”

“Why can’t girls ever do anything on time? It is _so_ uncomfortable

sitting in this stuffy room!”

These and other murmurs came from various parts of the Auditorium. It

was certainly much past the hour, and yet the curtain did not rise. At

last the President came forward. “I must ask your indulgence,” she said,

as she stood in front of the curtain. “Something has gone wrong with the

curtain, we cannot raise it; but while we are waiting for a carpenter,

Miss Harmon has kindly consented to read.” At this there was much

applause, for Annabel had a well-trained voice, and sufficient

self-confidence to make whatever she did very effective. Accordingly,

she came forward attired in a white muslin gown, pale blue sash, and a

leghorn hat lined with blue. She was to wear the costume in the play,

and no one could deny that it was most becoming. Annabel read in a

plaintive tone. She read old ballads and modern love songs, two of each,

and the audience applauded most heartily. Then she tried a bolder

flight, a dramatic monologue, and still her hearers were enthusiastic.

She bowed her thanks, smiled, and then a movement of the curtain was

seen. Annabel stood there unconscious of anything but the audience

before her. There was a vigorous clapping of hands from a distant

corner.

“Why, that sounds like a man, doesn’t it?” said a girl behind Julia,

leaning over toward her. Just then a huge bunch of carnations fell at

Annabel’s feet with a heavy thud, as if thrown by some one used to

handling missiles. Again Annabel smiled and courtesied, and again the

audience applauded, with one pair of hands sounding louder than the

rest.

Clarissa looked at her watch, and closed the cover with a snap.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to have the play begin; we didn’t come to a

reading.”

The Idler President again appeared in front of the curtain and said

something to Annabel. The latter, smiling pleasantly, opened a book. The

curtain rose behind her, with the stage set for the play; but she began

to read again, slowly and with great expression, while in the background

the heads of various girls were seen peering from behind the scenes,

evidently impatient for Annabel to stop.

Some of the audience, with a sense of the ridiculous, began to laugh,

but Annabel was unconscious of everything but the applause. She stood as

if waiting an encore.

“Is it a wonder,” whispered Julia to Clarissa, “that she got the Class

Presidency? I believe that she hypnotizes people.”

“Ah, she reads like—like—a bird,” said Clarissa magnanimously.

“You couldn’t honestly say ‘like an angel,’” said Julia, and Clarissa

shook her head.

How long this unpremeditated performance might have continued no one can

say. Before Annabel could recite again the President came forward,

announcing firmly that the play was to begin. On Annabel’s face as she

withdrew there was a decidedly aggrieved expression. Nevertheless, when

she appeared in the play she looked as cheerful as her wont, and said

her lines in a melodious voice. Ruth was a middle-aged Englishwoman,

with a becoming lace cap. The girl who played a man’s part wore high

boots and a long drab coat, the skirts of which came below the tops of

her boots.

The setting was good, the dialogue bright, and the audience at last

dispersed with the feeling that the whole performance had been a great

success.

“Who was that tall girl who passed us?” asked Julia, when the play was

over.

“I am sure I do not know, at least I did not notice her.”

“I always feel,” Julia continued, “as if all the Alumnæ are acquainted.

But I can see that it would be hard for them all to know one another.

The girl that I speak of was tall and rather awkward, and she pushed her

way through the crowd without speaking to a soul.”

“Oh, she may have been a friend of some one in the play. Each was

allowed to invite a guest from outside. Somebody told me that Annabel

Harmon thought that they might have been permitted to ask men.”

“Yes, because she thought that she would look particularly fetching. For

a sensible girl, she is certainly almost as vain as they make them.”

“What is the objection to men spectators? The costumes are harmless

enough, compared with what they were in my day,” said the graduate.

“Only that it’s against the rule,” replied a Junior. “But in _your_ day

the girls who played men’s parts used to wear real clothes, didn’t

they?”

“Yes, _real_ clothes,” and all laughed at the undergraduate’s slip.

“Yes, men’s real clothes,” the graduate added, “borrowed usually from

some brother or cousin at the University. Really, some girls made up

wonderfully like Harvard men.”

“I should like to have seen them. I hate our present stage dress for

men; it is neither ancient nor modern.”

“Yet it’s very _proper_!” interposed Clarissa sarcastically. She had

just joined the group.

“But why was manly attire given up? Since only girls saw the plays, it

couldn’t have done any great harm.”

“Oh, it was a man who spoiled it all, you know; they deserve their

reputation of marplots. I can’t vouch for the story, but they say that a

Senior who came once to an Open Idler thought it necessary to express

his gratification to some one in authority.”

“No one could find fault with that.”

“No, but he was awkward. ‘I’m delighted to be here,’ he said, ‘for I’ve

often hoped to visit Radcliffe. My clothes have been here many times at

the Idler dramatics, but this is the first opportunity that I have had

for coming myself.’”

“What a stupid creature!”

“Well, it seems he had a sister in Radcliffe who was in the habit of

borrowing his clothes. He had a rather small and neat figure, and a

large wardrobe, so that he could be drawn upon for almost any kind of

dress. The rule, however, was made immediately after this speech of his

that men’s costumes were not to be worn at our performances, and great

was the lamentation.”

“It isn’t as bad as it used to be,” said another; “we can wear a kind of

man’s dress now, provided that the coat has a skirt effect. It isn’t

exactly an up-to-date costume, but it is fairly picturesque.”

“And to think,” interposed Clarissa, in a tragic tone, “that at the

Pudding plays, or indeed at the Cercle Française, or anything else at

Harvard, the boys can put on ballet costumes or any dress that a woman

might or mightn’t wear.”

“There’s no equality of rights, even in so frivolous a thing as

theatricals,” cried one of the girls in mock sorrow. “Why, Polly, why

are you so late? You’ve missed some fun.”

“I’m sorry, but I had to go to the City this afternoon. I suppose the

play _was_ fun. But I’ve just seen something quite as funny,” and Polly

began to smile at the remembrance.

“Oh, tell us, Polly, for if there is anything funny to be seen, you are

sure to see it.”

“Well, I met a girl at the head of Garden Street smoking a big

meerschaum pipe.”

“That isn’t funny, it’s pathetic!”

“She must have been ashamed, for when she saw me she tried to put the

pipe in her pocket.”

“How ridiculous!”

“Then she couldn’t find the pocket, and so she started to put the pipe

back in her mouth. It was clear that either she wasn’t used to pipes—or

to dresses.”

“Why, Polly!”

“So I asked Frank Everton, who was with me—no, he hadn’t been in town

with me, I only met him in the Square—I asked him to follow her into the

college grounds. She crossed the street at a trot when she saw us

coming, and it seemed to me that she was making for Weld Hall.”

All the girls in the group were now thoroughly interested.

“Consequently I stood at the corner of Appian Way until Frank came back

with his report, and—”

Here Polly paused to note the effect of her words.

“Well, well, what was it?” asked the impatient listeners.

“Well, it was Loring Bradshaw. Frank followed him to his room, where he

tore off his skirts. He had forgotten that he was masquerading as a

woman when he lit his pipe. You see it was in the pocket of the

waistcoat which he wore beneath his cape. I had recognized him almost

immediately; you know he has a funny little scar under his eye, and then

that manly stride! Even in Cambridge you wouldn’t see a girl with a gait

like that.”

“But why was he parading in woman’s clothes? Was it a college bet?”

“Oh, I haven’t heard the whole story yet. Frank came back in a hurry

because he had left me standing there.”

“What kind of a hat did he wear?” asked Julia with interest. “Was it

large and drooping, with yellow roses?”

“The very hat. But I never knew you to take so much interest in a mere

hat!”

“And was the cape a black one, with a chenille collar?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then he was here at the play. I wondered who she was. But why in the

world did he do it?”

One afternoon soon after this, as Polly and Ruth loitered in the hall

they noticed a young man entering the Secretary’s office.

“He’ll find no one there,” said Polly, “for I’ve just been in myself.”

Stepping out of the office door, the visitor happened to see Annabel

Harmon crossing his path, and he stopped her, apparently to ask a

question.

“I wonder who he is,” said Polly. “Annabel will think herself in luck if

he asks her to show him the building. She loves to act as guide,

philosopher, and friend to strangers.”

Apparently some such duty had fallen on Annabel, for she and the

stranger ascended the stairs toward the Library.

“There,” cried Polly, “I don’t mind Annabel’s being the chief usher at

all our social functions, and presenting herself everywhere as the

typical Radcliffe girl. But the rest of us know something about the

building and its contents—including the students. Why didn’t that youth

ask us to show him over the building? In the Secretary’s absence,

Annabel will be able to say whatever comes into her head.”

“Aren’t you a little unfair?”

“Perhaps, but I’ll run upstairs. Annabel might not give us a perfectly

impartial account. Won’t you come?”

“No, thank you,” replied Ruth, “I was on the point of going home.” So

Ruth went home, and Polly mischievously hastened up to the Library. She

found Annabel and the stranger looking apparently for some book.

“Oh, Polly,” cried Annabel, “_couldn’t_ you find the Librarian? Mr.

Radcliffe, excuse me. Mr. Radcliffe, let me introduce you to Miss

Porson.” Polly started at the name, while acknowledging the

introduction, and Annabel continued: “Mr. Radcliffe is deeply interested

in our college on account of the name. You see he is descended from the

same family as our foundress, and he thinks that it would be most

interesting to establish some memorial of the family here. Didn’t I

understand you to say that you thought of giving a collection of books,

or something of that kind?”

Mr. Radcliffe modestly bowed his assent, for Polly broke in before he

had time to reply in words. “I shouldn’t exactly call Anne Radcliffe our

foundress.”

“Oh, well,” and Annabel’s smile was sweeter than ever, “the college

certainly took its name from her, and it seems so interesting to have

one of her descendants here.”

“Not exactly a descendant,” interposed Mr. Radcliffe, “but—”

“Oh, one of the family—it’s almost the same thing in these days when

every one is so interested in genealogy.”

Although Annabel was always fluent, Polly looked at her in surprise, for

she was soon launched on a long account of the origin, rise, and present

condition of Radcliffe. Mr. Radcliffe listened attentively, apparently

with no inclination to say more than “Yes,” “No,” “Indeed,” “Only

fancy,” and the other little things that keep conversation from becoming

entirely a monologue. Polly had moved to one side, and from time to time

she gave the two a curious glance. Was it imagination, or did she really

see a smile on the young man’s face?

Presently as they strolled into the hall, Polly heard Annabel say, “I am

really sorry, Mr. Radcliffe, that we have no books relating to your

family. To-morrow, however, when the Librarian is here she may find

something. Her assistant is rather new to the work.”

“Oh, I can assure you,” the young man responded effusively, “I have been

more than repaid for coming. To see the interior of this building is

indeed an experience, and under such auspices!” Annabel accepted the

compliment with a becoming blush. “She always can blush to order,” one

of her critics had been known to say.

Mr. Radcliffe’s next remark was inaudible to Polly, but Annabel’s, “Why,

certainly, I will see what I can do,” rang out quite distinctly. Leaving

the young man alone for a moment, Annabel went into one of the smaller

rooms leading off the hall. In a few minutes she returned.

“Excuse me for keeping you so long. I had some difficulty in getting

it,” and she held out to Mr. Radcliffe a slip of white paper.

“Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times; no book-plate in my

collection will be more valued than this.”

“Well, I declare,” thought Polly, “a book-plate for a souvenir! Perhaps

it’s all right to give it to a descendant of the Radcliffes as we

haven’t any relics of the immortal Anne Radcliffe to show; but really, I

wonder if Mr. Radcliffe thinks that Annabel is President, Dean, and

Secretary all combined? It’s a pity that he couldn’t have come at an

hour when more of the powers could have been seen.”

When Polly reached the first floor of Fay House, Mr. Radcliffe was no

longer there, and Annabel, seated in the conversation room, with a

magazine before her on the table, had her eyes fixed dreamily on space.

“Thinking of Anne Radcliffe?” queried Polly, as she went by. But Annabel

did not answer, and, passing on, Polly met Clarissa at the outer door.

“Such fun!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been laughing for five minutes.”

“Tell me,” responded Polly, “that I may laugh, too.”

“As I was crossing the Common I met my cousin Archibald apparently

waiting for some one. I stopped for a second to speak to him, and of

course I asked whom he was waiting for.”

“Of course.”

“Well, it seems that Somers Brown is up for one of those Greek letter

societies,—I’ve forgotten which, and part of the programme, the

novitiate, or whatever they call it, is for him to bring a book-plate

away from the Radcliffe Library by means of some bluff. He wasn’t to get

it by breaking and entering, but he was to have it freely given to him

by some one in the college. So he decided to rig up as an Englishman,

and call himself a descendant of Anne Radcliffe’s family, and—”

“I know,” said Polly, smiling.

“Oh, then you saw him? Perhaps it was you who gave him the book-plate?”

“Not I,” replied Polly, “although I had the pleasure of meeting Mr.

Radcliffe.”

“Surely neither the Dean nor the Librarian gave it to him.”

“No, indeed! It was Annabel. He ran across her when he started on his

search for information. Poor Annabel, she believed every word he said,

although she prides herself so on her insight. She gave him any amount

of information about Harvard as well as about Radcliffe. But then, he

really had an English accent.”

“Oh, yes, but imagine Annabel’s rage when she finds that she has been

imposed on! I shouldn’t like to break the news to her.”

“But she ought to know.”

“Well, it isn’t our duty to tell her. Let us see what happens.”

The outcome was that Annabel the next morning was ready to tell the Dean

of the honor paid the college by the visit of Mr. Radcliffe. “He is

willing to make researches in England regarding Lady Moulson herself,

and I should not be surprised if he should found a scholarship for us.

From what he said I judge that he has a large estate in England, and he

seems deeply interested in Radcliffe, especially after hearing my

account of things.”

Julia happened to be the girl to whom Annabel had begun to unfold her

great expectations from Mr. Radcliffe.

“But haven’t you heard the true story?” she asked.

“Why, no, what do you mean? What true story?”

“Why, Polly told me, she and Clarissa.”

Annabel began to lose her usual placidity. She suspected a practical

joke.

“Why, who was—that is, wasn’t he—”

“No,” replied Julia, “at least as I understand it, he wasn’t a

Radcliffe. It was a test quiz, you know, for one of the college

societies.”

“Then who was the man?”

“His name was Brown, Somers Brown. He was ordered to get some girl he

didn’t know to show him through Fay House, and to bring away a new

book-plate to prove that he had been in the Library. At least that is as

I understood the story from Clarissa.”

It would have been better had Julia not mentioned Clarissa’s name.

Annabel turned from white to red and from red to white. Like most

persons with a fair amount of self-love, she regarded a practical joke

as almost unbearable. She remembered how Polly had stood about in the

hall while she was talking with the Englishman, and she felt not

unnaturally aggrieved. Beyond the change of color and a certain increase

of dignity, Annabel did not express her feelings. “When there is any

mischief brewing Polly and Clarissa are pretty sure to be in it,” she

said. Then she moved off with a smile hardly less amiable than the one

she usually wore, before Julia could explain that Polly and Clarissa had

really had nothing to do with the visit of the pseudo Mr. Radcliffe, to

Fay House. The story, however, had widely circulated, and most of those

who knew Annabel, even her friends, were highly entertained that one who

so prided herself on her insight should have been thus imposed upon.

“I saw Somers Brown walking about with Annabel yesterday, and I wondered

why he held up his hand as if to enjoin silence on me. I had no idea

that he was moving about under false colors. I can see, though, how he

might impose on any one as an Englishman. He has lived abroad a great

deal, and he really has an accent. Now that I think of it, his get-up

yesterday was rather amusing, the plaids in his suit were so very plaid,

and he used his monocle so steadily—and that cane!”

“He is so well known in Boston and Cambridge society that I wonder

Annabel did not recognize him. I supposed that she knew everybody—at

least by sight,” said one girl, sarcastically.

But so far as words were concerned, no one ever knew exactly how Annabel

felt. An observer, however, might have noticed that from this time her

demeanor toward Clarissa and Polly was far less cordial.

The book-plate episode led to a revival of interest in the story of Anne

Radcliffe. Girls who had never heard just how the name came to be chosen

for their college began to inform themselves more exactly.

XV

ANGELINA

Late one afternoon as Julia sat in her study, the maid, rapping at her

door, announced, “A young girl to see you.”

“Didn’t she give her name?”

“No, she is—well, she is a young person.”

“Show her up, please,” and Julia, stepping outside, soon saw Angelina

coming up the stairs.

“Why, what brought you so far this cold day, Angelina?” she asked in

greeting her.

“Well, Miss Julia,” she replied from the depths of an easy-chair in

which she had immediately seated herself, “well, I did have a time

getting here. You see I started this morning, and I told my mother not

to worry if I didn’t come home to-night. I knew you’d make room for me,

and there’s things I want to talk over that I couldn’t write.”

Julia had not heard from the Rosas since the Christmas vacation, when

she had spared a day to visit them and take a basket of presents.