“Because, Julia”—Lois knew now that it was best to explain the whole

matter—“because I may not be here next year.”

Then in as few words as possible, Lois told Julia that loss of money and

other things made it expedient for her to take a year or more away from

college.

“I cannot bear to be counted out of this class, but there is no help for

it.”

Julia very wisely did not attempt to dissuade Lois from her purpose of

teaching, although already a little plan had begun to form in her mind.

Yet she was sympathetic, and told Lois that it was simply impossible to

think of the class as ready to graduate without her.

“Why, we’ll all have to stay out a year, just to keep up with you,” she

said.

But in her own room that evening, Julia pondered long over the

perversity of Fate, that hampered girls like Jane and Pamela and Lois,

who loved study for its own sake, while many others were able to glide

through college with no thought of the great privileges that were open

to them. “The worst of it is, the girls whom one would like to help are

always the proudest.” Then Julia put her mind on the subject, and

decided that if she could help it Lois should not leave college.

As Lois had finished her examinations in the first two weeks, she found

time for more than one brief call on Miss Ambrose. It was so easy to

drop in for a half-hour in passing, and the interest of the older woman

in all her affairs was so genuine, that it was a delight to tell all

that she could about college life. One day she stayed to luncheon, and

enjoyed the service of quaint, old-fashioned china and silver, and she

stole glances of admiration as she ate, at the massive mahogany

sideboard and the spindle-legged serving table and the delicate steel

engravings on the wall. Then in Miss Ambrose’s sitting-room she found so

much to gratify her love of antiquities. There was the cabinet, for

example, with its wedgewood vases, and the mosaics collected in Europe,

and the little book-shelf with its tiny volumes of the Italian poets,

bound in vellum, and the half-dozen miniatures on the mantle-piece of

Miss Ambrose’s parents and other relatives,—all these and many other

things claimed Lois’ attention, although most interesting of all was

Miss Ambrose herself. A well-cultivated mind has always a strong charm

for a thoughtful girl, and Miss Ambrose had certainly more culture than

belongs to the average college graduate, man or woman. She had travelled

and she had studied, yet she always seemed ready to hear Lois’ views on

any subject of general interest.

“You look pale,” said Miss Ambrose abruptly on this particular day; “you

look pale, and if you will pardon my saying it, a trifle worried. A

young person should never show the touch of care.”

“Why, I ought not to look worried,” said Lois soberly. “I am sorry to

appear so—so stupid.”

“You could never appear stupid,” rejoined Miss Ambrose, “but you are

certainly paler. I hope that you are not working too hard.”

“Oh, no, work always agrees with me.”

“Then something is troubling you,” persisted Miss Ambrose firmly. “I

fear that you were less successful than you would have been had you not

taken care of me the night when I sprained my foot. I know that you were

to have an examination the next day.”

“Oh, no,” and Lois smiled like her usual self. “Oh, no, I came out

better than I expected in that. I had an ‘A.’”

“Then I am really puzzled,” said Miss Ambrose, adding, with a slight

touch of severity, “I should think that you might trust me sufficiently

to tell me what the trouble really is.”

Now even a fortnight earlier, Lois would hardly have believed any one

who had told her that after a brief acquaintance she could have found it

possible to open her heart to one whom she had known so short a time.

Yet although she confided comparatively little, Miss Ambrose, reading

between the lines, saw that the young girl was making a great sacrifice

in stopping her course at this stage. “Sacrifice” is not perhaps exactly

the right term, for on the part of Lois it was involuntary. Until she

could earn money, it was not possible for her to continue her course.

Yet when Lois had told Miss Ambrose all her reasons for leaving, the

older woman merely expressed the conventional words of regret. Her eyes

held rather more than their usual look of absent-mindedness.

Great, therefore, was the surprise of Lois, on reaching home on that

Saturday evening after she had been with Julia, to find a letter

awaiting her from Miss Ambrose. From between the pages a thin blue slip

fluttered to the floor.

“You must accept this,” wrote Miss Ambrose in her fine, pointed

handwriting, “as a very slight tribute of my indebtedness to you. I do

not refer merely to the sacrifice you made in staying with me the

evening when I was hurt; but you have done me a great favor in bringing

me in touch with the woman’s college. You have given me an insight into

the life of a college girl. I know that you will continue to keep me

informed about it, and thus I shall enjoy through another a little of

what I so longed for in my youth. From this time I intend to contribute

a certain amount toward the education of one or two students, and I am

sure that you will oblige me by being the first to give me the privilege

of doing something for the honor of good scholarship.”

Picking up the blue slip, Lois saw that it was a check for one hundred

and fifty dollars. The amount took her breath away. It meant not only

the payment of her tuition for the next half-year, but it gave her a

margin for other things, something even to save toward the expenses of

the next year, for Lois was a good manager, and her pulses beat to fever

heat as she thought of all that she could do with this money.

She found that her parents made no objection to her keeping the check,

and she had no hesitation in breaking her engagement with the Village

School, as she knew that another approved candidate for the position had

been sadly disappointed when it was given to her.

Lois felt that she had done nothing to deserve this good fortune, and

yet she was too sensible to decline what came in her way. She realized

that her own greatest usefulness in the world would come from finishing

her college course, and she lost no time in thanking Miss Ambrose, and

in assuring her that she would do her best to deserve her confidence.

Then Miss Ambrose smiled a contented smile. At last she had a direct

interest in the woman’s college.

XXIII

CLOUDS CLEARED AWAY

Julia was the first person outside her own family to whom Lois told her

good fortune, and Julia, to tell the truth, was a trifle disappointed in

hearing of it, for she had formed a little plan of her own, and if Miss

Ambrose had not been ahead of her, she would have come forward to

prevent Lois’ leaving. She told Clarissa, however, how near the class

had come to losing Lois, and Clarissa, not vowed to secrecy, told

others. The disclosure was entirely to the advantage of Lois, for all

the class expressed itself fully as to its great loss, if its most

promising student had had to leave for the mere lack of a little money.

Clarissa and Polly artfully took advantage of this feeling, and talked

about Lois’ accomplishments so persistently that even the least

interested admitted that she was the very girl for the Idler Presidency.

It was hard for Annabel to count herself altogether out of the running,

but at last she submitted gracefully to what she could not help; and if

she did not try to forward Clarissa’s cause, she certainly did nothing

to hinder it. As she improved in health she did not open her heart to

Clarissa, and she made no admission of knowing more than any one else

about the publication of Professor Z’s notes. She was very friendly to

the Kansas girl, and even invited her one afternoon as guest of honor to

one of her famous little afternoon teas. Polly laughingly accused

Clarissa of permitting herself to be bribed into friendliness. But

Clarissa retorted that she had never felt unkindly toward Annabel, and

that in time wrongs generally righted themselves. It was probably

through Annabel’s influence that Alma Stacey bent all her energies

toward getting Clarissa on the basket ball team, and succeeded.

As the spring passed on, many pleasant little social events brought the

Juniors in closer contact with girls in the other classes. The students

of highest rank had been elected into the various clubs, according to

the studies in which they excelled. No one with less than two “A’s,” or

two “B’s” with two additional courses could be admitted into these

exclusive little organizations, and membership in the History or English

or Philosophy Club, or indeed in any of several others, was accounted a

great honor.

Julia was in the History and Music Clubs, Polly was in the English Club,

Lois was in half a dozen of them, and Clarissa, almost to her own

surprise, was in the Philosophy Club, having made a great impression on

her classmates, as well as on her professors, by her very original

method of interpreting various theories of philosophy. The Juniors were

admitted in season to take part in the open meetings of these clubs, to

which were invited the members of the corresponding clubs at Harvard, as

well as the teachers in the department and individual guests of honor

from outside.

The Juniors, however, felt closer in touch with the Seniors when they

planned one or two special things in honor of the class so soon to go

out.

“They treated us well when they were Sophomores, and we were nothing but

Freshmen, so now we must do our best to make them feel that they really

will be missed,” said Julia, as she and Polly and one or two others of

the committee were planning what form the Senior party should take.

“Oh, there’s no danger of their not thinking that they will be missed,”

cried Polly. “Why, I believe that Elizabeth Darcy anticipates that the

decline of Radcliffe will date from the day of her graduation. But we

won’t let a little prejudice stand in the way of our giving them a good

send-off.”

This particular affair was called a music party, and a prize was offered

by the Juniors to the Senior who should show herself most familiar with

unclassical music. The prize was a pretty little old Dutch silver

violin, and to the amusement of all it went to a girl who sang all the

lyrics from all the operettas composed by Radcliffe girls during the

past five years. She offered to play each operetta through from

beginning to end, but the judges (which meant the whole Junior class)

begged off and declared that she had sufficiently shown her ability, and

had really earned the prize. So with much laughter the tiny violin on a

crimson ribbon was slung around her neck.

In return the Seniors gave the Juniors a party, requesting in their

invitations that each girl should bring a book for the little white

bookcase in the Senior room. “As you will soon be Seniors yourselves,”

the invitations had said, “these books will really be for your own use,

and you have always been so unselfish that you wouldn’t have thought of

doing this had we not reminded you.”

The Senior rooms occupied the first floor of a pretty old-fashioned

cottage on the Fay House grounds. With good rugs, well-chosen pictures,

a piano, writing desk, lounge, and easy-chairs, they offered a pleasant

retreat for the Senior who wished to escape the noise of the larger

buildings. Once a week during the winter the Seniors were at home for an

informal afternoon tea, and it was only on this set day that an

undergraduate ventured within the precincts. The old-fashioned house had

been bought by the Radcliffe Trustees in their efforts to acquire for a

campus all the land in the immediate vicinity of Fay House, and the

little house in the natural course of events would sometime be pulled

down. But in the meantime it was a delightful place of retreat for the

Seniors. To be sure, Elspeth Gray, who had been in New York during the

spring recess, brought back glowing accounts of the Senior room at

Vassar.

“These rooms look countrified compared with the Vassar room. Why, there,

although they always have the same room, each Senior class refurnishes

it. Even the wall hangings are changed. This year instead of paper they

have put on a painted burlap, stencilled in gold, which cost nearly two

hundred dollars; and the furniture and bronzes and oil paintings,

although many of these things are simply lent by Seniors for the year,

would make your eyes open, you simple-minded Radcliffeites.”

“Plain living and high thinking is the rule at Cambridge,” responded

Ruth, who happened to be one of the group to whom she spoke. “Come,

Elspeth, don’t join the crowd that is sighing for a porter’s lodge, or a

boy in buttons, or some similar luxury here at Radcliffe.”

“Dear child,” and Elspeth drew herself to her full height, “I did not

say, did I, that I preferred the elegance of Vassar and Bryn Mawr, but

we haven’t even any palms, such as they have at Wellesley, or—”

“Well, we have historic associations. There’s the Washington Elm, almost

under our eyes, and we’re so nearly a part of Harvard that we can look

back on a long and honorable past, even if we have less than twenty

years of our own to count up.”

The spring would have been altogether perfect for Julia but for her

estrangement from Ruth. It was hard to approach Ruth on the subject,

because there had been no open break between them, and because Ruth gave

her no chance to seek or make an explanation. They still had their rooms

together, but Ruth always studied by herself in her own room.

Occasionally on Mondays Ruth appeared, but she was oftener absent when

Julia was entertaining those girls who dropped in. As Nora was only a

Special, she was in Cambridge little except for recitations. Yet she had

noticed the coolness between the two, who at Miss Crawdon’s school had

been great friends. She could not help observing, too, that Ruth was

never at Mrs. Barlow’s on Saturday and Sunday, when Julia and Brenda

were so apt to have their friends about them. Ruth, to be sure, always

pleaded that she must spend as much time as possible with her mother,

who had been abroad in search of health during Ruth’s first two college

years. She was still an invalid; and although Nora knew that Ruth

naturally wished to be with her, this explanation did not wholly account

for the coolness between Ruth and Julia.

From Julia she at last drew an account of the affair of the telegram,

and the injury done to Polly.

“It isn’t altogether what Ruth did, but it’s her indifference that has

disturbed me so,” said Julia.

“Perhaps she didn’t do it; perhaps there’s some explanation about the

telegram. Really, Julia Bourne, I did not think that you could be so

unreasonable. But I’m not altogether sorry,” she continued, smiling,

“that you have shown yourself just a little less perfect than we thought

you. I used to think you absolutely reasonable, but now—”

“Well, if you ever had so foolish an opinion of me, I’m glad that

something has happened to remove it.”

“I must tell Brenda,” added Nora, as she bade Julia good-bye. “She’ll be

pleased to hear that I’ve picked a flaw in her perfect cousin. Secretly,

I believe that she thinks you almost too perfect.”

Not long after Nora had left her, the postman put into Julia’s hands an

envelope, on which she recognized Angelina’s handwriting. Angelina had

not been in Cambridge this winter. Indeed, the day after the operetta

she had gone back to Shiloh, and in the autumn she had taken a place as

mother’s helper in a household where there were several children. It was

near enough to her own home to permit her to see her mother and the

children twice a week, and Mrs. Rosa was now so much stronger and the

young Rosas were so much older that they could manage very well without

Angelina. It was better for Angelina to have the responsibility of a

position where she could earn money. Already she had started a

bank-book, and in every way she was much more contented than a year

before. She was very fond of letter-writing, and her epistolary style

was decidedly high-flown.

“My dear Miss Julia,” the present letter began. “I have a confession to

make, though I know that you will say that I am always sinning and

repenting. But this was not exactly sin, only the kind of carelessness

that you have often reproved me for. You see I saw Miss Ruth the other

day, and I asked if that telegram did Miss Polly any harm, I mean her

not getting it at once. You know I went home the next day and never

heard about it. But I thought that next morning you didn’t look as happy

as you ought to after an enthusiastic reception of your operetta (that

was what the newspapers said), and so when I asked, Miss Ruth said that

it made a great deal of trouble for her. I wonder how that was when the

telegram was for Miss Polly? I suppose it was something about her

father, for I heard he died. I know that I ought to have given it to her

as soon as it came, for she was trying a song with you, and they sent it

over from her boarding-house. But Percy Colton asked me to come down and

pull some molasses candy in the kitchen, and I forgot all about it until

after the performance. Then Miss Ruth, when I told her, said that she

would give it to Miss Polly quick, so I don’t see why it made any

trouble for her. I’m very sorry, but that’s the way things happen in

this world—just exactly the way they oughtn’t to.”

The letter gave more information about Angelina’s personal affairs, but

only the above passage made any impression on Julia.

“Oh, Angelina!” she sighed, “you always have had a fashion of making

trouble, but luckily in this case, it’s not too late to straighten

things out.”

To decide, with Julia, was to act. Overhead she could hear Ruth moving

about in her room. Running up the stairs, two at a time, in a moment she

was with her.

“Oh, Ruth, can you ever forgive me? How mean you must have thought me!

But really, I’ve suffered more than you; even if this letter hadn’t

come, I should have told you so.”

“What letter?” asked Ruth, thoroughly bewildered.

“Oh, from Angelina; it was she who kept the telegram.”

“Of course; I always knew it.”

“But _I_ didn’t know it. There, I won’t throw blame on any one else. It

has all been my fault, and not Angelina’s.”

“‘All’s well that ends well,’” said Ruth, pinning a crimson rosette at

her belt. There was a slight stiffness in her manner, but she looked at

Julia with her old-time pleasant smile; and as they clasped hands, the

two girls knew that they were friends again. “Naturally,” she added, “it

was hard, Julia, to find you unjust—”

“But if you had only said the least little word, I should have

understood, Ruth, but when you said nothing—”

“But how could I say anything? When you so evidently had your mind made

up, what could I say?”

“Ah, but I must tell Polly. Won’t you come with me, Ruth?”

“Not this afternoon. I’m going to a ball game with Will; it’s only with

Amherst to-day. But there’s a party of a dozen going, and not a

chaperon.”

“Of course not. That’s the one delightful thing about Cambridge; we can

go to ball games without any of the trammels of an ‘artificial

etiquette,’ as Clarissa might say.”

Then Ruth departed for the ball game, with Will holding her parasol, and

Julia standing in the doorway, waving her a good-bye after a fashion

that had not been possible during the past year.

From Ruth, Julia went to Polly, and it was harder to bring up the

subject of the telegram to her, for the very mention of it recalled so

many sad memories.

“So, after all, Clarissa has been the most charitable of us all. Seems

like we have all been carried away by suspicion, while she has always

been inclined to stand up for Ruth,” said the Southern girl.

“Well, in other things besides murder trials, it isn’t worth while to

trust to circumstantial evidence. But I am the most to blame, for I

ought to have known Ruth better than to suspect her of a meanness. I

shall begin to wonder now if I haven’t been unfair to Annabel.”

“I doubt it, for I happen to know that she borrowed Clarissa’s history

note-book a few weeks before that article appeared,” rejoined Polly.

“Well,” said Julia, “until I’ve removed the beam from my own eye, I

won’t search for the mote in Annabel’s.”

“Ah!” cried Polly penitently, “as you put it, I believe that there is a

beam in my eye also. But I shall lose no time in apologizing to Ruth.”

So Polly apologized, and spread the news abroad that she had been very

unfair. Julia, too, was repentant, and that May and June of their Junior

year was much brighter than the same months had been when they were

Sophomores. Then when Lois was elected Idler President, Polly went about

beaming. She declared that she had not lived in vain, and to celebrate

the joyful event arranged a canoeing party at Riverside. There were

twenty girls in the party, and Mrs. Colton and Professor and Mrs.

Redburn went as protectors. They rowed and paddled, and listened to the

band, and consumed unlimited quantities of ginger ale and sandwiches.

They wound in and out on the curving river, and the lights of thousands

of lanterns shone upon them from the river banks and the boat-houses,

for it was a special night with the boat clubs. It was a delightful

celebration and well planned, and although some of the girls were unduly

daring and seemed to court collisions, when they were counted at the end

of the trip they were found all to be there, to the great relief of the

elders of the party. They had sung college songs until they were almost

hoarse, but Clarissa had voice enough left to propose a vote of thanks

to Polly, adding, “We haven’t a Float Day, nor a Lake Waban, but the

Charles is free to all, and where is there a stream that is half as

fascinating for canoeists?” And all the others answered, “Nowhere.”

While it was yet uncertain whether or not Clarissa would go on the team,

the Spring Meet came off in the Gymnasium, in which her name was down

for several events. The Gymnasium was crowded with friends of the

contestants and members of the R. A. A., and many were there as strong

partisans of various girls who were to compete in the many different

contests. In the horse vault and the saddle jump, some wonderful records

were made. But for some reason the greatest interest centred in the

running high jump, and Clarissa’s friends had prophesied that she was to

make the record in this. She had a formidable rival in Mary Francis, a

Senior, and an especial friend of Elizabeth Darcy’s, who had held the

record for two years. The two classes and their friends watched both

girls with the closest attention. Polly and Julia were perfectly sure of

Clarissa, and the latter fairly hugged her when with flushed cheeks and

her dark hair lying in moist little ringlets on her forehead she was

declared the victor. Not only that, but with fifty-four inches she had

made a record that was to put her and her class on a pinnacle. This,

indeed, marked the beginning of great successes for that class, and

brought out the fact that a genuine class feeling had been established.

No one in the earlier years of the Annex or Radcliffe could have

imagined that this feeling would become so strong. Each girl was

beginning to be thought of, not as an individual, but as a member of the

class, likely to reflect upon it scholastic or athletic glory.

Clarissa’s success at the meet made it seem all the more likely that she

would be captain of the team. Even had there been a faction against her,

it would have been difficult to keep her down. But there was no such

faction, for the prejudice of the year before had almost completely died

away. There was hardly a girl to take exception to the cheer when it

rang out:

“Radcliffe, Radcliffe, Radcliffe,

Rah, rah, rah,

Rah, rah, rah,

Rah, rah, rah,

Miss Herter and the team!”

—a cheer that contained a prophecy.

XXIV

SENIORS ALL

How quickly that summer before their Senior year passed away! Probably

hardly a girl in the class failed to regret that they were travelling so

quickly toward the end of their college course. During the summer a

dozen or more had sent a vacation round-robin about from one to another.

Clarissa had written a witty letter describing her experiences in

drinking the waters at Manitou, whither her father had been sent in

search of health. She also mentioned incidentally that she was

practising ball, “for our team is to come out the very top of the heap,

but don’t repeat my language,” she had concluded. Julia wrote of a very

quiet summer at Rockley, as her aunt’s illness had prevented a proposed

European trip. Lois had had three weeks in the White Mountains with Miss

Ambrose, where Polly had joined her for a fortnight. Instead of

tutoring, Pamela had felt warranted in giving her summer to research

work, but she had done this without suffering in health, because she had

found a delightful little village on the Maine coast where the board was

almost nothing, and where she had just the inspiration she wanted in

hearing the surf roll in upon the beach. Elspeth Gray wrote of an

encounter that she had had with—well, it is not necessary to go into

particulars—but with the graduate of a well-known college for women, who

had pitied her very much because her lot had been cast at Radcliffe. “As

if I hadn’t chosen this lot for myself with all the colleges of the

country spread out before me. She said that we had no college spirit,

and that we ought to see that there was a lack of dignity in accepting a

degree that was only a kind of imitation of a Harvard degree. But it’s

useless to argue with such people, although I did make her admit that

Harvard offered more to men than did any other college in the country,

and she was amazed to learn that we had precisely the same courses of

study, the same instructors, and the same examinations as Harvard men

have. Dear me! where have people been brought up to know so little?”

Each girl whose name was appended to the round-robin, while expressing

her anxiety to see her classmates again, added a note of sorrow that

this for the majority would be the last year at Radcliffe. A few

intended to return for higher degrees, but it was doubtful if all could

carry out their plans.

In the meantime they were getting all they could out of college life.

Those girls who came from a distance were especially anxious to make up

for lost time by going to lectures, concerts, or by visiting art

galleries and historic towns, that they might feel that they had lost

none of the special advantages that Cambridge and Boston offer the

college student. Clarissa, who had done much sight-seeing in her

Freshman year, now thought that her greatest need was for Sever Hall

lectures, and she made up a little party consisting of Polly and two or

three others of her classmates, who agreed to go with her two evenings a

week. She enjoyed whatever lectures came on those evenings, for she said

that three years at Radcliffe ought to have fitted her to understand

anything. She continued to attend lectures even when her classmates, on

one pretext or another, had dropped off, for she was so fortunate as to

run across a special student of good standing who had given up her

position in a Western High School for the sake of a year’s study at

Cambridge. A little later Pamela made one of the party, as it had been

her habit the past two years to attend all the lectures or readings

given by the Senior professor of Greek. While some Radcliffe Seniors

were to be found at all of the Sever Hall lectures, Clarissa in this

last year was really the most persistent, and she was the more

persistent, perhaps, because some of her friends tried to dissuade her

from burning the candle at both ends. They spoke in this way because

Clarissa was steadily adding to her reputation as an athlete. She was

now captain of the team—a position that many of the undergraduates

regarded as more enviable than that of President of the Idler. It was a

great grief to Polly that she could not play basket ball, but when she

presented herself for the necessary physical examination, a slight

weakness of the heart and lungs was discovered, in itself not serious,

although sufficient to render her an unfit candidate. In consequence to

assuage her disappointment she made herself an amateur coach and spent

what time she could watching the practice games. Her observation was

keen, and more than one suggestion of hers was put into practical

effect.

She was sure not only that the Senior team would vanquish all the others

at Radcliffe, but that in its outside contests it would carry all before

it. “Oh, if we could only have a chance against Bryn Mawr!” she sighed.

“Of course that day is coming, but if it would only come in our day! Was

there ever such a captain?” she concluded, with an admiring glance at

Clarissa.

“Never, I am sure,” replied Pamela. “I love to look at her. She is the

very picture of health.”

“There couldn’t be a better centre, not only because she’s so tall, but

because she has such judgment. How she managed it I don’t know, but she

contrived to get Julia for one of her forwards and Ruth for the other.

Neither intended to play this year. But there they are! They both have

cool heads, and there’s little danger of their losing their wits in an

exciting match.”

Pamela glanced for a moment toward Julia, who stood ready to make a

goal, with the ball held lightly in her finger tips. Even while they

were looking, with a little twist she threw it, and it fell into the

basket.

“I count it one of my privileges in coming here,” said Pamela in her

prim little way, “to have known Julia Bourne. Whatever she does, she

does so well, and she always has a thought for others. She is always so

encouraging.” Just at this moment Julia glanced toward her friends, and

though she did not really bow to them, she smiled pleasantly.

“There’s one lesson we can learn from basket ball,” remarked Pamela.

“Ah, Pamela,” and Polly laughed. “Sermons in stones, books in the

running brooks are nothing to your lessons. But there, don’t blush at

me, but tell me what you had in mind.”

“Oh, I was only thinking that it’s less what the individual player does

than what the team does as a whole. A girl who thinks only of her own

ability to make a wonderful throw may make a throw that will gain great

applause, but she generally sends the ball into the hands of the enemy.”

“Like Elizabeth Darcy last year. Did you see that match?”

“No,” responded Pamela.

“Well, she brought down the house with two or three brilliant throws,

but she really did more to hurt her team than any one on the other side.

If I had been Clarissa I should have been afraid to have Annabel on the

team for the same reason. She thinks of herself first, and of the

general good last.”

“Human nature according to Hobbes.”

“Oh, my dear, I never think of ethics out of the class-room. There—there

look!” and both girls turned to see a goal scored for Clarissa’s team—or

rather for their own team, since Clarissa was the embodiment of the

Senior athletic aspirations.

The match with Wellesley was one of the things of which they were sure,

and it was likely to be exciting. Brenda teased Julia when she heard of

the coming contest by saying that she was bound to be on the side of

Wellesley this year, for Amy had just entered Wellesley, and Brenda was

still very fond of her. Since their trip to Nova Scotia they had seen

little of each other except in summer, for Amy had been very hard at

work preparing for college, and society had absorbed Brenda the past two

years. Amy had felt especially tender toward Brenda the past year or

two, because the beginning of their acquaintance had seemed to mark the

beginning of prosperity for Amy and her mother. The efforts of Mrs.

Barlow and Mr. Elton had resulted in a fairly large sale of Mrs.

Redmond’s paintings. Indeed, her water-color sketches had become so much

the fashion that her income now permitted her to live in Salem. Thus Amy

for a year or two had been able to see much more than in former years of

her schoolmates out of school, and some of her little sharp corners had

been entirely rounded off. The death of Cousin Joan the past winter had

made it possible for Amy to enter college without any worry as to ways

and means; for although the money left by Cousin Joan from most points

of view would have been considered very small indeed, it was enough to

carry Amy comfortably through college. It was left to her for this

purpose, “in recognition,” as Cousin Joan wrote in a note that was found

with the will, “of her patience with a very troublesome old woman.” Amy,

wiping away a few tears, as she thought of the invalid whose life had

been so narrow, protested that it was her mother and not she who should

have the money as a reward for patience. But Mrs. Redmond reminded her

daughter that the money was really a gift to her as well as to Amy,

since she would now be saved a certain amount of financial care in

planning Amy’s college career. Therefore, Amy at Wellesley, and Julia at

Radcliffe, at odds only on the subject of some college championship,

exchanged visits and compared notes, and each ended invariably by

thinking her own college the best.

Brenda and Amy had been a little less intimate since those first Rockley

days, and in the past year the former had been away in California; at

least, she had gone for a year’s absence in the March of Julia’s Junior

year. She wrote to Amy as to Julia rapturous letters about the beauties

of California, mingled with entertaining accounts of her sister

Caroline’s children. Before Christmas Mr. and Mrs. Barlow started for

California to visit their daughter and bring Brenda home. Nora went with

them, by special invitation, as an attack of measles in the early autumn

had prevented her resuming her special work at Radcliffe, and her eyes

needed the rest.

In the absence of her relatives, therefore, Julia was naturally thrown

more in the society of her Radcliffe friends than had been the case in

other years. Edith was spending the year abroad, and the little group of

Miss Crawdon’s girls was widely scattered. Julia spent Christmas with

Ruth in Roxbury, where Pamela, Clarissa, and Polly were also invited;

for Ruth, although she had not entirely changed in her general opinion

of Pamela and Clarissa, had still changed somewhat in her feeling toward

them. She had learned to see the good points of the candid Western girl

and of the timid Vermonter.

In justice to Ruth, it should be said that her change of view was not

entirely due to the fact that the class, as a whole, had now a much

greater appreciation of these two than in their first college years. She

had seen her own mistake in attaching too much importance to Annabel’s

judgments. This, combined with her own slight prejudice against girls a

little unlike those to whom she was accustomed, had made the trouble.

Ruth, too, had suffered so much from Julia’s coldness after the affair

of the telegram that this misunderstanding had made her more charitable

toward others. Though no explanation had yet been given of the origin of

the newspaper article, she no longer believed Clarissa responsible for

it. Ruth was not a snob, and the fact that Clarissa was now the popular

captain of the basket ball team had had little to do in influencing her.

Neither was she the more anxious to be considered Pamela’s friend

because the latter was now the observed of all observers from having won

the great prize open both to Harvard and Radcliffe students for a thesis

on a classical subject by an honor student. The prize was newly

established, and besides the honor it conferred, the money value was

greater than that of any other prize offered. Pamela’s prospects had

greatly brightened. Her scholarship for the year had covered her

tuition, and she had done some tutoring. But the two hundred and fifty

dollars which the prize would give her would free her from all worry

until she could establish herself as a teacher. Very thankful was she

that she had taken the summer for the special study and research needed

for the thesis. The honor that she had won through the prize made a

great impression on her relatives in Vermont, and her aunt wrote her a

cordial letter, suggesting that after all they might let bygones be

bygones, and adding that they would be very glad to have a visit from

her as soon as her “school” was over. Pamela accepted the invitation,

for she longed for a sight of her old home. But she wrote that it must

be July before she could leave Cambridge. She had promised to stay with

Miss Batson until after the Fourth of July.

Of all the Seniors in cap and gown Lois was perhaps the happiest, for it

was the first year of her college course in which she was comparatively

free from care. She was freer than ever before to enjoy the lighter side

of college life. Whether presiding at a business meeting or receiving at

a reception, Lois was greatly admired as President of the Idler. In

fact, she filled the place so well that many wondered that she had not

been thought of a year or two earlier. Polly, hearing these comments,

was greatly amused by them, and inwardly commended herself for having

brought it about that a girl who had never been called popular should in

her last year of college be near the pinnacle of popularity. Nothing

succeeds like success, and although Lois in office was just as

independent as Lois out of office had been, yet she now was more at

liberty to mingle with her classmates. The charm of her manner was

realized, therefore, by many, whereas before it had been felt only by

the few with whom she came in immediate contact.

Polly’s literary talent which had shown itself in a rather frivolous

form in the operetta had so developed that her professors had encouraged

her to undertake more serious work. One or two of her poems had appeared

in “The Radcliffe Magazine,” and had been highly praised. But this

commendation did not mean half as much to her as the fact that the

“Advocate” had taken one of her short stories. After it was accepted,

some time passed before it was published, and at first Polly thought

that she would let no one hear of her good fortune until it was actually

in print.

But at last she had to tell Clarissa, and then Clarissa begged

permission to tell Julia, and in a short time all of Polly’s friends

knew it. “Yet, honestly,” said Clarissa, “I don’t see why you are so set

up about a little thing like that. It isn’t a bit better to have a story

in the ‘Advocate’ than in—”

“I’d rather have it there,” said Polly, “than in the ‘Atlantic Monthly,’

or in any other of the large magazines.”

“Why, Polly Porson!”

“Well, you may see that I am right, because one can have a thing in the

‘Advocate’ only during a very limited time, while she has all her life

to get into the others.”

“Yes, and sometimes it takes a person all her life to get in.”

“Then it’s well to make sure of the thing near at hand, like the

‘Advocate’”, was Polly’s response. And linking her arm in Clarissa’s,

she walked off with her friend.

“Clarissa,” she said, as they withdrew out of hearing of the girls with

whom they had been sitting, “have you ever found out about that

newspaper article, that one about Professor Z’s notes?”

“No, not exactly,” responded Clarissa. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I have always had a suspicion, and I should like to verify it,

or have it all settled before we leave college.”

“But why should you care? It’s all a thing of the past, and it does not

trouble me at all now.”

“I dare say not, but it’s a thing I’ve set myself to find out, and, in

fact, I almost think that I know who it was.”

“My dear Polly, please do not concern yourself about it on my account. I

really do not care.”

“But I care, Clarissa. So far as the class is concerned the thing has

come out all right. You’ve done so much for the team that any feeling

they might have had would be wiped away. But—” and here Polly looked

rather inquiringly at Clarissa—“you won’t be offended if I say that

there are still some professors and one or two others in authority who

have a prejudice who think that you did this,—even Professor Z

himself,—and that is why I want to clear the thing up. I must tell you

who I think it was, Clarissa. I firmly believe that it was Annabel.”

Still Clarissa was silent.

Polly looked at her suspiciously. “Upon my word, I believe that you know

who it was. Why won’t you tell?”

Clarissa laughed one of her deep, hearty laughs. “You really are the

most inquisitive little person. Surely I have a right to some secrets.”

“Then you admit that you know?”

“I have my own suspicions.”

“Then it was Annabel. You won’t say that it was she, because she is

indebted to you. You have a kind of a manly sense of honor. I don’t know

what else to call it.”

“Well, then, since you are so persistent, and since you might make

trouble for Annabel, as well as for me, by telling others of your

suspicions—”

“Then it was Annabel!”

“Not exactly, my dear. Do you remember that rehearsal performance of the

Idler when Annabel sang so long before the curtain went up?”

“Oh, yes, ages ago, when we were Sophomores.”

“Yes, well probably you remember the flowers that fell with an awful

thud on the stage.”

“I was not there myself, but I heard about them.”

“Of course you know that they were thrown by Loring Bradshaw who

attended the play dressed as a girl?”

“Yes, I have heard it.”

“Well, the affair made much trouble for him. He was a Senior, and this

was the last of several escapades that brought him into disfavor with

the college authorities. He was suspended, lost his degree, and although

he came back and took it the next year, he has felt rather bitter toward

me ever since.”

“Toward you! I did not know he was a friend of yours!”

“Neither a friend nor an enemy. But it is true that he became my enemy

because he heard that I had spread the report of his masquerade.”

“It was not you at all, Clarissa; it was I who first told who he was. I

remember that distinctly.”

“Yes, but it was I who had the most to say about that Mr. Radcliffe

affair of Somers Brown. Annabel always believed that I had something to

do with that practical joke. She still believes, doubtless, that it was

purposely played on her. Naturally, she feels annoyed. But I fear that

her suspicions have carried her too far. However that may be, I know

that my note-book was in her possession not so very long after this, and

then—”

“And then followed that newspaper article! And you believe that she had

nothing to do with publishing it?”

“I believe that she had less than you think.”

“Then you are more charitable than I could be.”

Beyond this Clarissa would say no more on the subject.

XXV

A STRANGE MEETING

One afternoon soon after the mid-years, Julia was at work in the stack

of Gore Hall, the Harvard Library. For the past two years she had been

delving deep into American History, and in a certain research course she

felt more interest than in almost any other of her studies. She hoped

before graduating to have accumulated notes enough for the basis of a

monograph. Several such monographs had been published, under the

auspices of Radcliffe, on other subjects besides history, and they had

been praised for their originality. Julia’s chosen subject dealt with

the early history of the country, and at present she was studying the

formation of the government. A special card gave her access to the great

collection of books in the Harvard Library stack. Her professor

suggested the books to be considered each week, and she submitted her

notes to him and reported what she had read.

On this particular day, surrounded by the many volumes of “Eaton’s

Debates,” she was absorbed in tracing some difficult point. The long

windows of the wing where she sat let in so much light that she did not

realize that it was growing late. Accordingly as she pushed her way

through the doors into the Main Library she was surprised to find it

deserted of students and attendants. The silence and gloom were

disturbing. There was no doubt but that she was locked in alone in the

great building. What the possibilities were for her getting out before

morning she did not know. The accessible windows were all too high from

the ground to permit her to jump out, even if she had any way of opening

them. Figures were passing through the Yard, but she disliked to make a

disturbance by knocking on the glass. If some student should come to her

rescue, he might thoughtlessly mention her plight, and then what joy for

the “Lampoon” and the daily paper, and any other publication that

enjoyed a chance to laugh at Radcliffe girls! Julia stood there, looking

from the window rather disconsolately. She did not doubt but that before

night should set in a watchman or a janitor or some one else would

appear on the scene to free her.

But a few hours in the building would be very tiresome, especially as

she had no light, and therefore could not pass the time reading. An

hour, perhaps, went by, and still Julia saw no way of getting out of the

building. She wondered what Ruth would think when she failed to appear

for dinner. She moved restlessly around the delivery room, staying as

long as possible near the windows. She hoped that some woman might pass

this corner of the Yard, who would pay attention to her, if she tapped

on the window. But all who approached passed so far from the Library

building that she saw little chance of carrying out her plan. Had she

been there hours or weeks? The unemotional Julia was actually shedding a

tear or two, though she felt ashamed of herself for her weakness. How it

would have amused Polly to see her usually calm friend as disturbed as

any one else would have been by her misadventure. After another period

of hopeless standing by the window, Julia’s heart gave a sudden bound. A

strangely familiar figure was coming near. But no! It could not be! Yet

it was strange that any one else should walk with that long, quick step,

with head bent after a fashion that she had not seen in any one for

three years.

This person, to be sure, wore a soft hat, and he looked a little heavier

than Philip, but no one else could walk in that way, and Philip had

always been devoted to those short sack coats. Yet Philip was two

thousand miles away, and Julia began to think that her little period of

imprisonment was wearing on her brain. How she ventured to do it she

often wondered afterwards. But jumping up on the window sill she

unfastened the window, and then jumping down she managed to lift it an

inch or two. The slight noise attracted the attention of the young man

she had observed, who was now standing directly beneath the window.

“Locked in!” she called to him. “Could you find some one to let me out?”

“Why, yes,” he replied, “at least I’ll try; but couldn’t you—” here he

seemed to measure the distance with his eye—“but couldn’t you jump out?”

The sound of the stranger’s voice reassured Julia; he was certainly

Philip, but he had not recognized her. He probably thought her one of

the Library assistants. But although the distance was not too great for

safety it seemed to Julia unwise to jump. She did not like the idea of

attracting attention; there were likely to be passers-by at any minute.

“Come,” said the young man, “this would really be the best way. One foot

on my shoulder, I’ll give you the word when no one is passing, and you

must be quick, too.”

Had Julia not known the identity of her rescuer she probably would not

have accepted his offer. But the prospect of noting his amazement was

too good to refuse.

“You’ll do it?” he asked a little impatiently.

“Yes.”

She said no more, for she was not yet ready to have him recognize her.

Besides, in the dim light she might have made a mistake. Watching his

chance until there was absolutely no one in sight of the building, the

young man at last gave the word.

Julia’s gymnasium practice was of great service to her now. Opening the

window wider, she sat for a minute on the sill. Then as she put her foot

on Philip’s shoulder, by an adroit movement she maintained her balance

while he knelt low enough to permit her to jump to the ground.

In a second she was on her feet, and no one but Philip had perceived her

strange exit from the building.

Her hat had fallen off, receiving the full force of the jar of reaching

the ground; and Philip, turning to speak to her, was amazed to find that

it was Julia whom he had assisted. He gave ready answers to her

questions, wondering that she did not know of his intended return.

“I haven’t heard from Edith lately,” said Julia, “and we have all been

so busy with the mid-years that we might have failed to hear an even

greater piece of news than your coming, although this really is very

important,” she hastened to add, lest Philip should think her altogether

ungracious. “It’s nearly three years since you went away,” she continued

after a moment’s silence.

“Is it? But tell me, Julia, how did you manage to shut yourself up in

the Library? Is it the fashion for Radcliffe girls to do that kind of

thing now? In my day you used to be more conventional. But we must hurry

to a car, you are hungry.”

“Oh, indeed I am not,” returned Julia. “Please let us walk—that is, if

you have time. They must have finished dinner at Mrs. Colton’s half an

hour ago, and I’d so much rather know what you have been doing these

three years. I have only heard general rumors from Edith and the

others.”

So Philip, nothing loath, gave her a glowing account of life on the

ranch, of the various people he had met and the things he had learned.

“It was harder sometimes than studying,” he said, “the life out there.

But it did me good, and now I’m going to work in a different way. I’ve

promised my father to work for my degree. What a fool I was to cut those

examinations! I’ll have a good half-year’s work to make them up. But I

may have time for a little law, too; I’ve promised my father to try for

the bar. Even if I do not practise, it will be a good foundation for

business. The old gentleman rather wants me to look after things and

relieve him.”

Mr. Blair had never been considered an overworked man, and Julia smiled

at the thought of Philip’s relieving him. But Philip to-day was

evidently very different from the Philip of three years before. He no

longer spoke in a drawl and the note of personal vanity was lacking.

When they reached Mrs. Colton’s, Philip went indoors with Julia, and

Ruth was louder than Julia had been in her expressions of surprise at

his return to Cambridge. He told the story of the rescue in a fashion

that was amusing, if embarrassing to Julia. Looking at him as he sat by

the droplight in Mrs. Colton’s library, she could see that he had grown

stouter and browner, and that no one could now accuse him of looking too

effeminate.

Ruth and Mrs. Colton congratulated Julia on getting safely out of the

building.

“Of course it wasn’t as bad as if you had been in the Agassiz or Peabody

Museums, with stuffed animals and bottled fishes or old Indian relics to

keep you company.”

“Yes, I’m thankful enough,” responded Julia; “also that I was rescued

without being arrested as an escaped burglar.”

“That reminds me,” said Philip, starting up, “that I must return and see

that that window is fastened. I must hunt up a janitor or something of

the kind.”

So almost before they realized it, Philip went off, promising to call on

them soon.

Then Ruth and Mrs. Colton insisted on Julia’s having the dinner that

they had saved for her; and Julia, thinking over the happenings of the

past two hours, realized that Philip had neither referred to that last

Class Day interview, nor had he thanked her for her advice nor

apologized for his long silence, and yet she was sure that she and

Philip were better friends than they had ever been before.

“Julia,” said Ruth the next morning, as the two sat in the conversation

room, preparing and looking over some of the notes of their Shakespeare

lesson. “Julia, I do not wonder that Philip and his friends used to

laugh at us just a little when we were Freshmen, if we were at all like

those two meandering through the hall.”

“But, my dear, we never walked with our arms about each other’s waists,

nor scampered through the halls, nor—”

“Nor wore pigtails,” continued Ruth, gazing again at the Freshmen. “One

of those girls, by the way, Minnie Crosfut, has been confiding some of

her woes and sorrows to me. She thinks that the upper class girls are

not sufficiently devoted to prayers. She thinks that attendance should

be compulsory, and that it isn’t fair for Freshmen to have more than

Seniors.”

“What an idea! Freshmen are no more obliged to go than Seniors. We all

know that at ten minutes of nine every morning there will be prayers in

the Auditorium, and as ministers of three different denominations

officiate in turn, most girls can suit their special theological tastes,

but no one _has_ to go. There are apt to be more Freshmen there, but I’m

afraid that the whole thing turns largely on the question of

convenience. Girls who have a nine o’clock recitation are apt to come

down here early enough for prayers. Freshmen from a distance have

usually promised their families before leaving home.”

[Illustration: “‘Julia,’ said Ruth the next morning, as the two sat in

the conversation room”]

“And Pamela?”

“Oh, Pamela comes because she is a minister’s daughter, and because her

conscience is always active. But most of us, I am sure, attend prayers

two or three times a week. Tell your Freshman that she should be more

observing. And now, to work; I am half sorry that we took this

Shakespeare course.”

“Julia! You to express such a sentiment! I am astonished. Why, it seems

to me the finest course we have had this year; at least it has meant

more to me. Every word now in every play that I read seems to have such

depth. I am always looking for the hidden sense. Yet I do wish that

sometimes the meaning were a little plainer. What do you make of this,

‘Oh, such a deed as from the body of contraction plucks the very soul’?

What is contraction?”

“Why, he gave us the note, ‘Power of making a contract.’”

“Yes, I should have written it on the margin, but my book is so covered

with notes that sometimes I trust to memory. I am anxious to finish this

this morning, so as to be free to enjoy the party this evening, for this

afternoon I am obliged to go to town.”

“Oh, yes, the party, the Sophomores’ farewell to us. I wonder what they

have planned? I hear that it is to be something very original. There’s

Polly with her camera; perhaps she knows.”

But Polly, although she had more than a mere idea of what the Sophomore

party would be, declared she was pledged to secrecy, and she invited

Julia and Ruth to go upstairs with her while she took a picture of the

“Fair Harvard” room.

This was a recitation room on the second floor, and Polly had been

waiting a time when it should have no classes, and when the light should

be favorable for a photograph. She meant to have a photograph of every

nook and corner of the old building for the album that she was making.

The “Fair Harvard” room deserved its name, for the author of the famous

college song had married a member of the Fay family, and in a room of

the old house he had written the well-known stanzas. His portrait and an

autograph of the poem, now hanging between the windows, gave the room

more interest than belonged to any other in the whole building.

“You will give me a print?” begged Ruth when she had finished.

“No, indeed, not one.”

“Why, Polly Porson, are you growing mean?”

“No, generous!”

“It doesn’t look like it. I have been expecting a whole set of your

photographs. Why do you refuse?”

“Come downstairs and I’ll show you.”

Julia and Ruth followed Polly to the bulletin board in the anteroom,

whereon were displayed the cards of girls who were ready to do various

things by which they could earn a little money. There was a notice from

one girl that she was prepared to paint the Radcliffe seal in water

colors, and from another that she would execute the Harvard or the

Radcliffe seals in burnt wood. Other girls advertised that they were

anxious to do mending or typewriting. One girl offered to frame

photographs in passe-partout, and others to make hand-painted picture

frames.

“There!” cried Polly, pointing to an excellent photograph of the Fay

House library, with a card stating that complete sets of Radcliffe views

could be obtained from the girl who had made this print.

“If I should give my photographs away, I should be taking money out of

her pocket. You and Julia and almost every girl in the class can easily

afford to buy Madge Burlap’s photographs, and I happen to know that she

needs the money. She’s one of the girls of whom the college is bound to

be proud. Since she’s willing to earn, she must be encouraged in her

efforts. That’s why you can’t have my photographs—for love or money.”

“I accept your apology, Polly, and now good-bye until this evening.”

Seizing Julia by the arm, Ruth hurried her off to the Shakespeare class.

When evening came, the Seniors were welcomed by the Sophomores at the

house of one of their members, whose house in Cambridge was large and

attractive. Across one side of the long drawing-room was a table covered

with a crimson cloth. When the Sophomores and their guests had all

assembled, a double quartette from the former class sang an amusing song

of greeting, and then at a given signal the cloth was lifted, and one by

one the Seniors were invited to come forward and gaze upon the

photographs that had been hidden under the cloth. Each Senior had a book

given her in which to record her guess as to the identity of the girls

whose photographs were here displayed.

“They’re all Seniors,” said Madge Burlap, “although you mightn’t think

it, Seniors at the age of ten or under; and if you don’t recognize

yourselves at that age, why we shall think that you are less clever than

you profess to be.”

The Sophomores had been at work all winter, collecting the pictures that

they now displayed. They had tried to get them, so far as they could,

from friends of the Senior rather than from the girl herself, as they

wished the class as a whole to be surprised by the collection. Besides

photographs, there were a few miniatures and daguerreotypes, while of

Pamela and one or two other girls there were only tintypes to show.

“You are not asked,” said the President of the class, “to say whether

the homeliest child has grown into the prettiest Senior, or the reverse;

we shall give the prize for plain, unvarnished guesses.”

When the books were all in, it was found that Pamela had come the

nearest to guessing the whole number, although even she had made two

mistakes. The prize was an order on the class photographer for a dozen

photographs, and everything considered, perhaps no one could have

appreciated this more than the Vermont girl.

As the spring wore on, the entertainments offered the Seniors came, as

Polly said, “fast and furious.”

Grateful though the class was for all the attentions lavished on them,

they enjoyed these various parties much less than the entertainments

given them in their Freshman year. Then four years of college life lay

before them. Now it was nearly all behind; and though they appreciated

the dignity of being Seniors, wearing the cap and gown, still not a few

of them would have given much to be at the beginning rather than at the

end.

Polly was one exception to this sentimentality, which toward the spring

recess seemed to take possession of her class.

“Four years more of examinations, a whole year of English A, a year of

daily themes, unexpected hour examinations in History I, at least two

years of superior smiles from girls who know more than we do,—no, thank

you! I am very glad to let the dead past bury its dead. But if any of

you really long for four years more, I should advise you to return for a

season of post-graduate work. Any one who distinguishes herself

sufficiently may be the sword to open the Harvard oyster from which to

extract the Ph.D.”

“Yes, if we could be Freshmen with Seniors’ experience life would indeed

be ideal, although as it is, it is real and terribly earnest, and I

wonder that we can take time even in the recess for Julia’s house

party.”

XXVI

THE HOUSE PARTY

When Mrs. Barlow offered Julia the house at Rockley for a party during

the Easter recess, the offer was promptly accepted. “I have ordered the

house put in readiness for our return,” wrote Mrs. Barlow from

California, “although we shall not reach Boston until the first of May.

I am sure that you must have worked very hard this winter, and that the

breath of sea air will be just what you need before hot weather sets in.

There is room for a dozen girls, and everything will be arranged for

your comfort. You must not hesitate to ask for whatever you wish.”

In making the list of the girls to be invited, Julia and Ruth were long

in consultation. Clarissa and Pamela, Lois and Polly, were certainties,

and there were three or four others about whom there was no doubt.

“There’s Annabel, too,” said Julia. “We must ask her.”

Ruth looked closely at her friend. “But do you care to have her? Are you

not asking her chiefly on my account?”

“I thought you might like her, even though you and she are less intimate

than you once were. But she is Class President, and she is much more

genuine than she was a year or two ago.”

“She tries to _seem_ more genuine,” responded Ruth. “But Annabel can

never be absolutely sincere. We must take her as we find her.”

“Oh, we all understand her now,” replied Julia, “and as she certainly is

entertaining, it seems to me worth while to invite her.”

Annabel, therefore, was one of the group that sat on the broad piazzas

at Rockley or wandered on the beach in the warm April sun. Although it

was vacation, each girl had set herself some task to be done before

returning to college. Therefore, for three hours in the morning all were

allowed to bury themselves in their books. Dante, Schiller, Greek and

Latin Classics, Von Holst, Fichte, Herbert Spencer, John Stuart Mill,

Seignobos, and other awe-inspiring books were strewn over the library

table, although any girl who touched her books except in the mornings

was at once forcibly reprimanded by her classmates. An exception was

made in the case of Polly and Clarissa, who both were studying practical

Astronomy. So ardent were they in their search for variable stars that

the other girls decided that it would be cruelty to force them to give

up the opportunities afforded by Rockley. Therefore they spent nearly

every evening on a little balcony, muffled in shawls. The wide, unbroken

stretch of sky gave them the best of views, and, armed with

opera-glasses, they carried on their search with great perseverance.

Clarissa, indeed, announced that she had found almost enough material

for a thesis, and that star-gazing could be a very profitable

performance, “when carried on by a prudent person like myself,” she

added _sotto voce_.

For exercise, wheeling was the favorite diversion of the twelve, and

some to whom this part of the country was new were enthusiastic over the

pilgrimages to Salem, Marblehead, and other historic places. At Salem,

where Amy also was spending her vacation, they had a glimpse of Mrs.

Redmond and her studio. Polly, who had money for whatever she wished,

bought a pretty little water-color sketch of the beach at Rockley, and

Annabel talked about having her miniature done. Fritz Tomkins, Amy’s

great friend, came down to call while the Seniors were there. He

expressed himself as perfectly delighted to meet a group of Radcliffe

girls, explaining that although he had been a whole year at Harvard,

they were the first students from the woman’s college whom he had met.

“You ought to have called on Ruth and me,” said Julia, with a

mischievous attempt at patronizing Fritz, “and we would have introduced

you to some one of your own age. We know several girls in the Freshman

class.”

“Thanks,” said Fritz, “but you know that at Harvard we hardly realize

that there is such an institution as Radcliffe. It makes so little—”

“Yes, it makes very little disturbance in Cambridge, and we would hardly

realize the existence of Harvard had we not the advantage of knowing its

Faculty pretty well,” retorted Ruth.

“I understand that you could hardly get on without them,” and thus the

good-natured bantering between the two went on for some time longer, and

in the end it was hard to tell with whom the advantage lay.

One evening at Rockley Julia announced that she had arranged for a

“confession conference.” She would give no satisfaction as to her

meaning until the whole dozen had assembled in the library before the

open fire.

Then, producing a red-bound book, she declared that its pages were

blank, except that one page in every five had in turn the names of each

of the girls present.

“I am going,” she said, “to ask each girl to tell me what Radcliffe has

meant to her, and then I am going to beg her to tell what her real

ambition was in coming to college, or better, what she intends to be

when she leaves. Let us take an hour to collect our thoughts and write;

then another hour to read and discuss what has been written. Later, with

your permission, these confessions will be handed to the Confession

Recorder (and she laid her hand on Polly’s shoulder) to be copied into

this book. I wish that the whole class would do something of the same

kind. But at the end of ten years, how interesting it will be to see how

near we twelve have come to our ideals.”

“Or how far we have fallen below them,” murmured a voice that sounded

like that of Annabel.

Thus, with pencils and writing pads, the twelve set to work, for Julia’s

proposal had the charm of novelty, and met no opposition. But when the

time came for reading what had been written, the majority of the girls

told what they hoped or planned, without confining themselves strictly

to their notes.

Polly said that she had chosen to come to college because she was fond

of study, and because it had been her father’s pleasure to tutor her in

the classics. Out of a family of five girls, she had thought that one

ought to have as good an education as a boy. “Besides,” she added, “it

seemed rather a good joke to shock all our friends and relations, who

thought it a terrible thing for a girl to go to college. Most people in

the South still think so, although I have converted a few. Papa was a

Harvard man,” she added in an undertone, “and that’s why I came to

Radcliffe, and that’s all I have to say.”

“But what have you learned?” asked Clarissa. “That’s part of the game.”

“Oh, everything,” responded Polly, “but chiefly that I am not the very

brightest girl in the world, as some of my friends and admirers used to

try to make me believe, when I lived down South.”

“And your ideal?” asked Julia.

“Oh, I’m going to write the great novel of North and South. The subject

is a large one, still I think that I can conquer it, but it will be

years yet,” and Polly sighed heavily—for Polly.

We know how Clarissa and Pamela happened to come to Radcliffe. Clarissa

now confessed that she had learned at Cambridge that it was a good thing

to live in a conventional place for a time and get the sharp edges

rubbed off. She added that at school she had always been considered the

smartest girl, but Radcliffe, she had found, was made up of the smartest

girls from a good many schools, and the majority seemed to be able to

hold their own quite as well as she. “What’s the matter with basket

ball?” cried two voices in unison from the other side of the room, and

Clarissa hastened to declare her ideal. This was, she said, to stay

quietly at home with her parents for the next two or three years. “They

think that I’ve been away too long, but if I really wish a profession at

the end of that time, they will not interfere with my studying.”

Pamela, after a moment’s hesitation, said that she had found Radcliffe a

most encouraging place, and that instead of subduing a girl, as Clarissa

implied, she thought that it tended to make her less timid.

“Which shows,” interposed Polly, “that Radcliffe is very like the

chameleon inspected by several persons, each of whom gave a different

account of the little creature.”

Pamela added that she was going to try for a European Fellowship, and,

if possible, spend a year or more at the American School at Athens.

Lois confessed that the pure love of study had drawn her to college, and

Radcliffe had been her choice, because while attending it she could also

live at home. “Although,” she added, “I believe that there is no better

college. Yet I so love study that even without Radcliffe I should have

studied by myself. But college has been wonderfully broadening for me,

especially during the past year, when I have had so many delightful

friends. As to my ideal,” she concluded, “I am ashamed to say that my

purpose has changed somewhat. I may not study medicine—at least not at

present. I am going to teach for two years, and at the end of that time

I shall try to go abroad for special research in Philosophy. There are

certain theories that I can work out by myself while teaching and—after

that—”

“Lois,” cried Esther Haines, one of the group, “mark my words, in two

years you will be marching to the altar to the tune of ‘The Wedding

March.’”

“Nonsense,” cried Lois, “I am the last one to—” But the others, noticing

that Lois was evidently embarrassed, could not resist the temptation of

teasing her.

In time it was Annabel’s turn, and she announced that she had happened

to come to Radcliffe merely because when on shipboard on her return from

Europe she had met a Harvard man who had told her that this was the

coming college for women, and that it was the thing for every clever

girl to be educated there. “‘Clever,’” murmured Polly, “there’s nothing

bashful about Annabel.” The latter added that she wasn’t sure that she

had learned as much as she had expected, but for the present she should

rest content, as she meant to devote the next two or three years to

society, as her father had taken a house in Washington. But just as some

of those present were thinking that Annabel was as vain as ever her tone

changed a little, and she said in a somewhat more humble voice, “To be

perfectly honest, I really have learned some things at Radcliffe, and

later in the evening, if you will let me, I wish to make a little

confession of my own.”

As if with one impulse Clarissa and Polly looked at each other

significantly. Her meaning to the others was not so clear. Even Julia,

failing to understand, hesitatingly gave her impressions of Radcliffe

and her aims.

“You needn’t tell us your aims in life,” cried Clarissa; “to do so would

be tautological, as you have been telling us constantly, ever since you

came to college.”

“Why, Clarissa!” and Lois looked almost angry. “You would have us

believe that Julia is the most egotistic girl in the class.”

“I am not unfair,” retorted Clarissa, “for you must agree that Julia is

likely to have, after leaving college, much the same aim that she has

had during her college days,—that of making every one about her as happy

as possible.”

Applause followed Clarissa’s explanation, and Julia withdrew from the

room in confusion to order more logs for the fire.

Ruth had confessed that she had been led to college from her curiosity

as to how she should feel as “the new woman” of whom all the newspapers

were speaking. From their columns she judged that a college education

was a very necessary part of this new woman’s equipment, and as she was

fond of study she had persuaded her mother to let her take the Radcliffe

course.

“Everything considered, you ought to have had a course in Domestic

Economy,” said Polly with mischievous intent.

“Especially since your aims after college are so very evident to us

all,” added Clarissa.

“Oh, I dare say that she’ll make just as good a housekeeper. A

college-trained mind is really a very good possession for a minister’s

wife.”

“Oh, Polly, Polly, you are incorrigible!” exclaimed Julia, returning at

this moment, and handing Ruth a fire screen to shield her from the gaze

of the others. Yet after all it was generally known that Ruth’s

engagement would be announced on Class Day, and she and Will Hardon were

situated so fortunately that the wedding, Julia knew, might take place

within the year.

It is worth noting that almost all the party gave love of study as their

chief reason for choosing college. They had turned their faces from the

pleasantly idle life of the average American girl, and from seventeen to

twenty-one had been hard workers. Every one of them had sacrificed

something in order to achieve her end, and almost all of them intended

that their education should benefit others. Although the majority of

Julia’s guests—like the majority of the class—meant to be teachers,

several were looking forward to other useful work. Even Annabel, in her

secret soul, had an idea that she was to reduce the frothiness of the

social set into which she should be thrown in Washington. Esther Haines

was one of the few who proposed a definite career of altruism. She was

to spend her first year after graduating in the College Settlement in

the east side of New York. She said that after her year’s experience she

would know whether or not it was wise to become the agent of some

charitable organization. She had an idea that she might prefer the

foreign field. Esther was one of the class whom Julia had come to know

best in her Senior year. The latter often regretted that her

acquaintance with Esther had come so late in her course, for Esther was

not a pale, dyspeptic altruist, but one of the cheerful, rosy-cheeked

kind, and it was easy to see that her mission to the poor would be one

of joy and hopefulness.

Of the whole group Madge Burlap was the one, perhaps, who had had the

hardest time in planning her course, for early in her Sophomore year her

father had died, and at first it had seemed as if she must leave

college. Instead of wealth, she now had nothing but a few hundred

dollars in the bank and many books, pictures, and personal belongings.

These things she gradually sold—so gradually that she did not draw on

herself the pity of her classmates. It had been hard to part with that

morocco-bound edition of Stevenson, at a time when her English

instructor was urging them all to an intimacy with the great Scotchman.

But after all, with the money in her pocket and the books on Julia’s

shelves, she was not so very badly off; for in negotiating for the sale

of the Stevenson, her pleasant acquaintance with Julia had deepened into

friendship. It had been harder to part with her Ruskin, for this set had

been divided, Polly taking “The Stones of Venice,” Annabel “The Seven

Lamps of Architecture,” and one or two others taking the rest. Madge was

a good business woman, and she disposed of all her superfluous

belongings except her camera. Yet that could not be counted a

superfluity, since she made it pay for itself many times over, and her

artistic views of Cambridge and the surrounding country were beginning

to be in demand at one or two well-known stationers.

“We know that you are a business woman and a photographer, and since you

won’t tell us your exact aim, I prophesy that you will make a fortune,

Madge, in artistic photography,” said Polly.

“Well, why not?” responded Madge, thinking of the three young brothers

whom she was helping educate. “A fortune in our family would be both

useful and ornamental.”

At last each girl of Julia’s party had read her confession, and the

others had given their approval. Each in turn had promised Julia to

record what she had written or said in the crimson-covered blank-book,

as a beginning of the archives to which the exercises of Class Day and

Commencement were bound to add so much. It was then that Annabel’s clear

voice was again heard.

“You must not forget _my_ confession, although it is not for the red

book.”

“Oh, then, let’s hear it,” cried Madge Burlap, and the others echoed her

wish. It happened that the group was now sitting in a semicircle around

the fire. Annabel was in the centre, and as she spoke the others turned

instinctively toward her. It suited her to be the centre of interest,

and she began very dramatically:

“Of course every one here remembers the afternoon when I recited so many

things before the curtain went up, that afternoon two years ago when we

had to wait so long for the Idler play to begin.”

Annabel knew, naturally, that every one present _did_ remember that day,

and she continued: “You may recall, too, that there was much discussion

afterwards about a strange girl who attended the performance—who—who

threw me a very large bouquet. Well, perhaps some of you may also have

heard that the girl was Loring Bradshaw in disguise, who took that way

of seeing a Radcliffe play. I recognized him, of course, but for certain

reasons he did not wish any one else to know that he had done this. He

was a little under a cloud in college, and he thought that this wouldn’t

do him any good with the Faculty. Well, the affair _did_ get out, and he

always thought that this was the last straw that led to his suspension.

He knew that I had not told, and he was sure that no man in college

would have done so. Then, I happened to mention that you, Miss Herter,

had spoken of it at Radcliffe, and he looked on you as the cause of his

troubles with Harvard. So it happened one day that he walked home with

me as I was carrying your note-book in History 100 that I had borrowed.

Your name was in large letters on the cover, and he insisted on carrying

the book away. I could not prevent him, for he simply took it from me. I

wrote him a severe letter that night, and the book came back to me

promptly the next day. He said that it had served his purpose, but I had

no idea of his meaning until that newspaper article appeared. I did not

care to tell people that Loring was undoubtedly responsible, and

besides, just then, Miss Herter, I was perfectly willing to have it

appear that you were to blame. They were certainly your notes, and I had

no way of proving that Loring had concocted the article.”

There was silence when Annabel finished. Before any one else could

speak, she continued: “I wish to say now that I am very sorry that I let

so many hold a wrong opinion, for of course I knew that they held it.

But I was annoyed about this, although I know now that Polly and

Clarissa had nothing to do with the Mr. Radcliffe affair as I thought at

first.”

“Thank you!” cried Polly.

“Well, I’ve realized for some time that I do not deserve to be Class

President. In fact, even before Clarissa rescued me I had begun to see

that I was a mean and jealous kind of a person.”

“There! there!” exclaimed Polly, rising to her feet, “we won’t allow too

much humility in the President of the class. We’ve all made some

mistakes of judgment, and I myself have been about the worst of all.”

“Ah!” continued Annabel, “you are too good, but I have learned more than

any one else in finding out that girls can be generous to one another.”

“There!” cried Clarissa, taking her place beside Polly. “In the language

of the poet, ‘Enough said.’”

Clarissa disliked scenes.

XXVII

NEARING CLASS DAY

As Class Day approached, the class began to feel that the end was indeed

near at hand. Thoughtful girls like Julia and Lois found a special

significance in everything that they did; “for the last time” meant a

great deal to them, and even the unsentimental Clarissa quoted Tennyson

with an approach to correctness:

“Tears, idle tears, I know not why ye fall,—

Tears from the depth of some divine despair.”

During May the class had had many attentions paid it by the other

undergraduates, as well as by different professors and their wives,—“a

continuous performance,” as Polly phrased it, of farewells; and that

girl would indeed have been stony-hearted who had not felt that all

these things had made her parting with Cambridge a little harder. There

had come a lull in these festivities during the examination season of

early June, for in comparison with all other examination periods this

one had an enormous importance for many Seniors. Even girls who had done

well throughout their course showed an unnecessary nervousness, and were

sincere in fearing that in some unexpected way they might lower their

records. Few of them, perhaps, expected to fail, but those girls who had

set their hearts on a degree _summa cum_, _magna cum_, or even simply

_cum laude_, felt that much depended on the marks of these final

examinations.

But when the examinations were at an end, worry, too, departed, and few

indeed were the Seniors who did not enter whole-heartedly into the

pleasures of these last days.

The work of the various class committees had been completed some weeks

before, and to the credit of the class all had worked together

harmoniously. Even in the election of the committees most little

rivalries and jealousies had disappeared, and if in all instances

precisely the right girl was not in the right place, no one criticised

or found fault. As Class President Annabel was Chairman of the General

Committee, Ruth of the Invitation Committee, Julia was Chairman of the

Committee on Class Exercises, Clarissa was chief of the Photograph

Committee, and Pamela, in spite of her protestations, had a place on the

Baccalaureate Committee.

So energetic had Clarissa been as Chairman of her committee and so

conscientious in securing the best photographs that some of her

classmates made really pathetic complaints.

“Sometimes, when I think that I am going to have an hour of leisure, an

hour when I may sink in the depths of my easy-chair and refresh myself

with Meredith,—George, not Owen,—there comes a gentle tapping at the

door, and I rise to receive a note reminding me that I am part of a

group that is to be photographed under the broiling noon sun, and that I

am especially requested to wear a pleasanter expression than usual. I

belong to so many groups,” concluded Polly sadly, “that my Senior May

has been one long noonday glare of sittings before the camera. When

there was nothing else happening, some amateur was taking a snap-shot,

to add me to her album of Radcliffe views. I cannot tell you how many

times I have been caught in unconscious attitudes, crossing the tennis

court, or leaning against a tree, or seated on the steps. I always try

to look my best at such times, because—”

“You spoke of _unconscious_ attitudes,” commented a listening Junior.

“Hush, child! When you are a Senior you will understand things better,”

replied the irrepressible Polly; “and to prevent further criticism, I

will give you a specimen of my most unconscious smile,” and the younger

girl accepted Polly’s latest photograph—a full length in cap and gown.

“My time for teasing you, Polly, will come to-morrow,” said the Junior,

“for you may be my vis-à-vis in a canoe, and if you are not careful I

may tip you—just a little way—into the river.”

But Polly refused to be frightened by this mild threat, and when the

canoe set out it was Polly who held the paddle. This excursion on the

river was the form into which the Juniors offered their hospitality to

the departing class, and a merry time they had with a picnic supper

spread in a grove on the river bank.

The Sophomores invited the Seniors to a dramatic performance in the open

air, after which—for almost the last time as undergraduates—the guests

were treated to the familiar fudge and college ice. If the fudge was

over-sweet and the ice over-watery, nobody criticised the feast. Indeed,

the affair was considered remarkably successful, since the Sophomores

were thought to have been extremely clever in having discovered that the

Radcliffe grounds were large enough for such festivity. All the

audience, to be sure, except the Seniors, had sat pretty closely

together on rugs and shawls spread on the grass. But the Seniors in

their camp chairs were not crowded; and though the setting of the mimic

stage was rather Shakespearian in its simplicity, it sufficed for the

little play. For the whole action was supposed to take place on the

links where two golfers engaged in some sentimental sparring, and a

caddie and a country maid furnished the burlesque element.

Of all the events of that last month none was more enjoyable than the

reception given by the Athletic Association to the Senior basket ball

team, as a special acknowledgment of its prowess in gaining the

championship. For Clarissa and her nine had not only vanquished the

younger classes, but had won certain victories over outside colleges

that had almost turned the heads of the athletically inclined. Indeed,

some of those girls who seldom set foot in the Gymnasium except when

obliged to exercise went to this reception to honor the team. For it was

the proud boast of the athletes that no girl on the team would have a

degree graded lower than _cum laude_, and thus the outside world would

see that mental and physical exercise could go on at the same time. As

for Clarissa—well, every one knew that she showed marked ability in

everything that she undertook, and no one, not even Annabel, grudged her

her honors. To her undoubtedly belonged the chief credit for the glory

that came to the class in bearing away the banner of championship. This

was more than a compensation for their losses in the tennis tournament.

“Few classes,” said Polly proudly, “will go out in a greater blaze of

glory. With Clarissa getting us the championship, and Pamela winning

that two hundred and fifty dollar thesis prize, all eyes will be turned

upon us.”

“They always are turned on the graduating class,” responded Julia, to

whom she spoke. “But it’s delightful, is it not, that these special

honors have come through girls to whom some of us were not inclined to

pay much attention in our Freshman year.”

“‘Some of us’ is good,” rejoined Polly, “when we remember that you

always had unlimited confidence in the two heroines.”

“I always liked them,” said Julia quietly, “as I saw that others must

when they knew them better.”

To picture the scene in the Gymnasium demands the painter’s brush rather

than the pen, for it was no formal reception such as any group of girls

could give in any house. Far from it! Though the day was fairly warm,

the star athletes did their best for the entertainment of their guests.

They performed feats that made the blood of some of the uninitiated run

cold. They went up and down ladders, and climbed ropes, and swung on

rings, and leaped over bars, and showed enormous agility, if they

undertook no difficult tests of strength.

Those girls who were not in the R. A. A. stood about in their light

muslin gowns, and clapped and cheered a steady approval; and the others

in their picturesque gymnasium suits clapped and cheered even more

loudly. They did not shriek, not they, when Clarissa at the apex of a

pyramidal arrangement of ladders seemed about to fall. They knew that

she was safe, and Clarissa was soon ready for her triumphant descent.

But some of the girls in light gowns _did_ exclaim at the critical

moment in tones loud enough to have frightened a timid gymnast, and some

thought it a pity that Clarissa should have to work so hard when she was

really the guest of honor, and some thought that she was making a

needless display of her prowess. Yet as Clarissa poised herself at the

top of the ladder before starting down, a mighty cheer went up from the

whole throng, and Clarissa, with beaming eyes and flushed cheeks, waved

them her appreciation of their appreciation before beginning the

descent.

After the banner had been duly presented, after the team had made its

acknowledgment, after every one who could make a speech had said the

proper thing, the R. A. A. returned to everyday costume, and the three

or four hundred girls wandered about the grounds until summoned to

college ice in the Auditorium.

For Julia the spring had an added charm from the fact that Philip took

so much interest in everything. Though working for his degree, he was

constantly planning little parties of eight or a dozen to see this or

that baseball game or the spring athletic meets. Whoever the others

might be, Julia was always of the party.

“I have not known so much of Harvard doings in all my four years,” she

said one day as they set out for a Princeton game, “and I feel foolishly

frivolous in my old age.” There was no sign of old age in the

bright-eyed girl who waved the Harvard flag, even up to the moment of

Princeton’s victory. The general excitement, and the fact that it was a

Princeton game, reminded Julia of that other Princeton game more than

five years before when Harvard was victorious at football, and when

Philip had shown himself just a little bored by having to escort a

“parcel of girls.”

Thus with some pleasant diversions lightening the unescapable hard work

of the examination period, the spring passed away, and the Monday before

Class Day found the whole class ready to enjoy the happenings of the

week. To Julia early that Monday morning came a note from Philip saying

that his degree was assured, and that he had nothing to trouble him now

except the fear that she might not get hers. Julia smiled as she read

the friendly little note, and thought how greatly Philip had changed

from the Philip of old.

The first event of the day was a luncheon given by the former Secretary

of the Annex and Regent of Radcliffe and his wife, at their Cambridge

house. To them more than to any others was due the credit of planning

the collegiate work for women that had finally resulted in establishing

Radcliffe College. The Secretary was always ready to answer the many

questions asked by the eager girls about the small beginnings of the

college, and to the more thoughtful it was a wonderfully interesting

story.

After the luncheon Annabel was called upon for a speech, and she was

followed by half a dozen others, each of whom were ready-witted in

responding to the impromptu toasts.

From the luncheon they went on to a reception at Craigie House. The

poet’s daughter had also been one of the founders of the college, and

the girls or classes honored with an invitation to Craigie House were

always envied by the others.

Clarissa and Pamela, on this afternoon of the class reception, in a

spirit of veneration, went almost on tiptoe into the study, now looking

just as Longfellow left it almost twenty years ago. There near a window

overlooking the Charles they saw the high writing desk at which he wrote

standing, with some of his quill pens lying on it. They noted the great

orange tree in the other window that had grown from a seed planted by

Longfellow. The portraits of Hawthorne and Emerson, and the little

water-color sketch of the village blacksmith’s shop, all came in for

their share of attention. But perhaps most interesting of all was the

portrait of the poet himself, in his fur-trimmed coat, painted by his

son, on an easel near the fireplace. The class wandered from the

quaintly furnished room known as Martha Washington’s parlor to the large

drawing-room back of the study, with its many art treasures gathered in

Europe. They strolled over the broad lawn, and each girl felt that this

reception at the Longfellow House was something that no other event of

Commencement week could surpass.

Their own Class Day was the Wednesday before that of Harvard, and in the

intervening day or two the class had little time to spare. The

invitations had been out since the end of May, and all the preparations

had been carefully made.

The literary exercises took place in the forenoon, with only the class

as audience. “Thankful enough we ought to be,” said Ruth, “that cut and

dried speeches in a hall have not yet been adopted by Radcliffe. It

would be so hard to have to explain our jokes even to our sympathetic

friends and relatives, and there would always be some present who would

think undignified any alleged witticisms that we might offer.”

Sure, therefore, of a friendly audience, Annabel gave the Class History,

and Polly the Class Prophecy. Ruth had written the words of a Class Song

for which Julia had composed the music. There was a Class Poem by

Estelle Ambler, a girl whose verses had lately appeared in several of

the magazines, and it was rumored that Clarissa was to make an original

contribution to the programme which no one was to know about until the

last moment.

Annabel’s History was even cleverer than her classmates had expected.

She reviewed brightly the various events of the undergraduate years,

scholastic and athletic, with the usual gentle gibes at History I and

English 22, and the trials offered by Junior forensics and daily themes;

and she made all laugh by the originality of her class statistics.

“We are 1,378 years old,” she read from her manuscript, “2,942 feet

high, and we weigh a little less than four tons. During our four college

years we have studied 26,134,720 minutes, and at Mrs. Agassiz’ Wednesday

afternoons we have drunk in all about 7,000 cups of tea. During our four

years we have used about 260 pints or 32.5 gallons of ink, and 5,636,250

pages of theme paper, which would cover about 5,000,000 square inches.

The actual time spent in writing examinations has been just 96 days, of

24 hours each. For this work 5,240 blue-books have been necessary, and

320 quarts of Mrs. Hogan’s beef tea. In listening to lectures we have

spent 30,000 hours, or 1,800,000 minutes. The Secretary knows that we

have been eager searchers for knowledge, for at the lowest estimate we

have asked her 2,470 questions, to which she has returned 2,470 patient

and obliging answers. Now that we are about to depart to the four

corners of the earth, we shall never forget old Radcliffe, nor the

blue-books, even though we forget what filled them. We shall always

remember the honored President and the Dean and the Secretary, and all

who have smoothed our path here for us, and we shall never forget that

we shall always belong to the Class of 189— of Radcliffe College.”

A Class Poem can never be very original, but Estelle Ambler offered one

that was extremely smooth and pleasing, and to the point. Polly followed

it with a Prophecy, in which she imagined all kinds of things likely to

happen to the rest of the class. “Prophecies contrary to fact,” many of

them might have been called, for Polly foretold the early marriage of

several of those girls who were the least devoted to society and the

most devoted to study, while for Annabel and Ruth and Clarissa she

prophesied many long years of toil as teachers or professors in school

or college. Business careers were foretold for the unpractical, and

those girls gifted with a sense of humor had a chance, in Polly’s gentle

satire, to see themselves as others had seen them; and they all smiled

at her concluding words, which she said embodied the sentiments of most

of those inclined to give advice to college girls that the main

advantage of a college education for a woman is that it fits her, or

ought to fit her, “to take up the duties and responsibilities of a

household, that by bringing her accurately trained mind to bear upon the

practical details of life, and exercising the acquired acumen of her

mind, she can make homes happier than they ever were before, and—” The

final words were lost in the applause that greeted this familiar

commonplace; and Polly, acknowledging a wreath of roses laid at her

feet, bowed gracefully as she descended from the Auditorium stage.

There was a hum of expectation as Clarissa followed Polly on the stage,

carrying a large, stiff-looking roll. Unfolding it, she announced that

she had been made Class Attorney, and that to her had been intrusted the

making of the Class Will, which she would now read.

The things that she bequeathed were chiefly the common property of the

class, such as “the superior smile when some underclass girl asks a

question that cannot be answered;” to the incoming Freshman class the

“privilege of profiting by the advice which their Senior advisers will

give upon every occasion;” and last, though not least, in the minds of

some, “the privilege of collecting on the slightest provocation sums of

money, great or small, in exchange for tickets to entertainments, or

without such consideration, to support divers good causes in Boston and

Cambridge, especially those connected with settlement and college work;

and the less ready money any girl is supposed to have, the more urgent

shall be the appeals.”

To the Sophomores among other things were given the right of assuming

“the nonchalant title of Junior,” and “the faculty and right of saying

to Seniors who are loath to depart this college life, ‘Oh, well, we have

a whole year more,’ in a way that makes a year sound an eternity.”

The Senior rights in various college officials and in certain college

properties were likewise bequeathed, and the mock solemnity of the whole

thing brought the programme to a close with a chorus of laughter. Then

after the class had sung Julia’s Class Song, there was an informal

half-hour of choruses and solos, and then a great hurrying homeward,

that each girl might have an hour of rest before the grand climax of the

day.

For some of the class, however, there could be no rest, as many, besides

those on the committees, were anxious to do their part in helping. But

beautiful though the decorations of Fay House were, they paled into

insignificance before the outdoor glories, for clever brains and skilful

hands had made the most of the opportunities afforded by the limited

area of the grounds. There were lines of lanterns between the trees, and

a wonderful pagoda that seemed to be constructed of lanterns; there were

tables on the lawns, laden with refreshments, and each Senior shook

hands with dozens of persons and answered scores of questions, and had

little opportunity to talk with the person she most wished to talk with,

and walked ten miles more or less showing each of her special guests the

points of interest in and around the college buildings. Each Senior,

too, looked her very best in her simple white gown, and the crowds of

Harvard students who were in attendance testified that socially at least

Radcliffe was in no way unpopular with the older college. So weary were

the Seniors as the evening advanced that they had little strength left

to dance in the new Gymnasium. But the undergraduates and their other

guests made up for their own lack in this respect.

Pamela had invited Miss Batson and all the young ladies who boarded with

her, and probably no guests enjoyed the day more than they. Besides her

own family and some of her younger Newton friends, Lois invited Miss

Ambrose, and those who were in the secret of Miss Ambrose’s aspirations

could see that through her interest in Lois her own youth had been

renewed. There was a rumor that she and Lois were to go to Europe that

summer, and whether that was true or not, any one seeing them together

could perceive that the feeling between them was stronger than that of

mere friendliness. Clarissa’s father and mother had come on from Kansas,

and several of her friends and relatives from the West. Annabel’s

father, a New York politician, was so pleased that his daughter had

retained the Presidency of the class that he was anxious to do all kinds

of pleasant things for her constituents, and had finally arranged a

mammoth pop concert party for Saturday evening. Julia, like the other

Boston girls, had many guests, but the Bostonians were better able to

entertain themselves than those who came from a distance.

Julia, for example, felt little responsibility for her uncle and aunt.

They had many friends on the grounds, as had Nora and Edith and the rest

of their party. She caught glimpses of Brenda constantly flitting about

in her firefly fashion, with Arthur Weston in attendance. It was an open

secret that Brenda’s engagement to Arthur was to come out before

Commencement, and those who knew them the best had already offered the

young people their congratulations. Many of the class, too, knew that

Ruth and Will Hardon were also on the verge of having their engagement

announced, and an observer might have thought that there was something

more than good comradeship in the devotion with which Philip followed

Julia from place to place. Julia had used not only the invitations to

which she was entitled as a member of the class, but she had been able

to secure many in addition from girls who did not need all their own

allotment. She was able, therefore, to invite not only her former

classmates at Miss Crawdon’s, but the teachers, too. Miss South was

there in the light mourning that she wore for Madame Dulaunay. Those who

knew her were wondering what she would do with the great house that her

grandmother had left her, which it would be hard to keep up on a

comparatively small income.

Of all those whom Julia had known best at Miss Crawdon’s school, Belle

alone was missing. By this it need not be understood that any one really

missed her, for Belle, since she had been sent to New York to

boarding-school, had really dropped out of the little set in which she

had once been a leading member. In vacations some of her new friends

visited her or she visited them, and she laughed at the ways of her

Boston contemporaries as “far behind the time.” She and Brenda always

kept up a correspondence, and her letters, though wholly about herself,

were always entertaining. She had already left Boston to stay with

friends at Mount Desert.

“But why Radcliffe College?” asked one of Polly’s guests, her cousin

from New York.

“Yes, where did you get that name?” asked another cousin, walking with

her.

“Why, from Lady Anne Moulson, of course,” responded Polly, not at all

unwilling to tell the story. “From Lady Anne Moulson, who was once Anne

Radcliffe, and who founded the first scholarship at Harvard. The fact

was unearthed just as the poor little nameless Annex was ready to appear

out as a regular institution, and so she was christened Radcliffe

College. Some did not care for the name, and would have preferred

Longfellow College or something else local, but on the whole it seemed

the best that could have been chosen.”

“I trust that Lady Moulson deserved the posthumous fame that has come to

her, for certainly your college will give her name undying glory,” said

one of the cousins gallantly in true Southern fashion, though he

modified his praise slightly lest Polly should think that he wholly

approved of a college education for girls.

To show herself impartial, Julia carried Tom Hearst’s flowers as well as

Philip’s on Class Day. But it was Philip with whom she walked about the

grounds after her duties as hostess were over, and Philip with whom she

promised to go to Memorial Hall on the evening of Harvard Class Day, and

Philip who was to be her escort at the Yale game the succeeding

Saturday. Yet though they had many little conversations, and although

what they said was largely personal, it must be admitted that there was

not a word of sentiment in it all,—of sentiment, at least, as it is

understood in its more romantic sense. They did talk, however, a great

deal about their plans for the immediate future. Philip had decided to

regard his father’s wishes, by taking his two years in the Law School,

hoping that his previous reading and some special effort would take him

through in less than three years. Julia confided to him certain ideas

that she and Miss South hoped to carry out in the form of a training

school for girls of the Angelina type. Philip’s face clouded when she

told him that she should sail for Europe in July, with her uncle and

aunt and Brenda and Miss South.

“But you’ll be back in the autumn?” urged Philip.

“Oh, possibly.”

“But I’m depending on you for advice and that kind of thing.”

“Edith is a better adviser than I.”

“Ah, but Edith isn’t a college graduate.”

“Nor am I yet,” and Julia would give Philip no further satisfaction.

Instead she wandered off, with a hasty good-bye to Philip, explaining

only that as one of the hostesses of the day, she must look after her

other guests.

Philip, following her, soon found himself in a group of which the

central figure was Pamela. The two had not met since the spring

following the sugar episode, and altogether had seen each other but two

or three times. Yet now the recognition was mutual, and both had

instantly the same thought, that each had greatly improved during the

intervening three years. He lingered to talk to Pamela, and he had no

chance to talk to Julia until later in the evening.

Although Philip felt dissatisfied, Julia had really given him more time

than most Seniors had given to any one person on that busy, busy Class

Day. Yet he kept his eye on her, and whenever he could induce her to

leave her other guests, he would get her to walk with him over the

building or through the grounds, on the pretext that there were many

things that he wished to have explained about Radcliffe ways. Together

Julia and Philip watched the gay throng of dancers in the Auditorium,

and in an interval when the latter laughed at the crowded condition of

the floor, Julia repeated the rumor that the next Senior class would

dance in the great Gymnasium, as those in authority had already given

their consent to this plan.

“That will be the proper thing, because—”

“Hush!” cried Julia, “the Glee Club is going to sing;” and as she spoke,

to the air of “Fair Harvard” floated the words:

“Now a song for our Radcliffe, so young and so fair,

With the light of the dawn in her eyes,

With the garlands of May in her beautiful hair,

Blest child of the true and the wise.”

As the song finished, Mrs. Barlow approached Julia, to remind her that

the hour was late, and that the two carriages were already waiting,—one

to take the Barlow party back to Boston, and one to convey Julia and

Ruth to Mrs. Colton’s.

As Julia and Ruth drove homeward, the former gave a sigh of relief.

“Aren’t you glad it’s over?” asked Ruth.

“Partly glad and partly sorry,” responded her friend. “It has been

tiring, of course, but then so pleasant.”

“Yes, and to-morrow when we are rested, we shall be sorry that Class Day

is past.”

“I am sorry now,” returned Julia, “for it marks the beginning of the

end.”

XXVIII

COMMENCEMENT—AND THE END

As Julia sat in church on Baccalaureate Sunday she felt sadder than on

any occasion since the class had begun to take its farewell of Cambridge

and of college life, for now they were together for the last time before

Commencement as the Senior class in cap and gown.

The last day was near at hand, and after that final assembling in

Sanders Theatre, it was unlikely that these threescore girls would ever

be all together again in the same place. Impressive though the sermon

was, more than once Julia had to recall her thoughts from wandering in a

review of the past four years. Had she herself made the best use of her

time? Was there not some girl among the Seniors to whom she might have

been more helpful than she had been—in ways intangible if not material?

Had she herself drawn all the inspiration she might have drawn from her

classmates? She had learned much from her intimates, but had she been

sufficiently appreciative of some of the others or responsive to them?

Thoughts like these so mingled themselves with her impressions of the

sermon that she left the church in a state of abstraction.

Questions such as Julia had asked herself can never receive a definite

answer. The wisest of us makes many mistakes, and the most foolish would

be plunged in constant despair if she had to call herself to account at

every step. To do her best is the most that can be asked of any girl,

and if only she tries to learn from her errors, whatever her past

faults, she can turn hopefully to the future.

Julia, fortunately, had comparatively little occasion for self-reproach;

for if she had made the very most of her opportunities at Radcliffe—if

she had left nothing undone that should have been done—she would have

been the only one of her kind. Thoughts like these of Julia’s presented

themselves to nearly every girl in the class—from Pamela the

over-conscientious to careless Polly. Even the self-sufficient Annabel

talked in a less self-satisfied manner, as she walked homeward from

church accompanied by two or three of her best friends.

The three days intervening between Class Day and Baccalaureate Sunday

had been very full. Friday had been Harvard Class Day, and there wasn’t

a girl in the class who did not know at least one Harvard Senior. It was

the first Class Day for Julia since the year of Philip’s failure, and

the things that she did seemed a repetition of the happenings of that

other year. There was but one marked change: the Tree exercises had been

given up, and a less strenuous performance went on around the John

Harvard statue on the delta. Confetti took the place of flowers, and the

whole affair was carried on in the most gentlemanly way. Yet Julia, like

many others, thought with regret of the old struggle around the

Tree—regret that it was to be no more. Philip, although he realized

better than any one else that this was not his real Class Day, yet

managed to get a great deal of fun out of it. Tom Hearst and some of his

former classmates, now about to be graduated from the Law School, gave a

small tea in the early evening, and it proved a reunion of the group of

young people who had been together so much at Rockley and in Boston.

Brenda’s engagement had come out that very day, and she and Arthur

Weston received the congratulations showered on them in a fashion that

amused every one. They were surprised that their friends were not

surprised.

“I am sure that I have always complained of the way Arthur teased me,”

pouted Brenda, “and I never _really_ made up my mind until—”

“When?” shouted Tom Hearst, noting with delight that Brenda was

embarrassed. But Brenda refused to answer.

Ruth and Will Hardon had an equally large share of congratulations, and

they would have been astonished had their friends not taken their

engagement as a matter of course.

On Saturday the same group of young people went to the Yale-Harvard game

on Soldier’s Field, and after they had returned home from Annabel’s

concert party, Ruth and Julia were tired enough.

Kaleidoscopic visions of the past week’s festivities mingled with

Julia’s more serious thoughts that Baccalaureate Sunday, as she

scratched off the dates on her calendar that showed only two days

remaining of college life.

But at last the eventful Tuesday had come—the Commencement that was to

end the undergraduate days of the class. They had breakfasted that

morning with the Dean, and had met many of their instructors at the

informal reception that followed. Commencement was at half-past four

o’clock, and promptly at that hour, while the orchestra in the gallery

was playing, a long procession filed into Sanders Theatre. The

amphitheatre was already filled with guests who had been ushered to

their seats by Harvard Seniors. At the head of the procession walked the

President of Harvard, and on his arm leaned the President of

Radcliffe—stately and benign. Close behind were the Dean, the Secretary,

the members of the Governing Board of Radcliffe and the Overseers of

Harvard, with whose approval the degrees were granted.

All these took their seats on the platform, and at the left sat the

Radcliffe Glee Club. The Seniors in cap and gown at the end of the

procession marched to places on the floor of the theatre directly under

the stage. It was hard for them to maintain their dignity without

turning around, when they knew that in the balconies were so many of

those with whom they would have liked to exchange a glance and a nod.

After the prayer, and the singing of “Integer Vitæ” by the Glee Club,

the President of Radcliffe congratulated the class on their four years’

work, and on the special honors that had come to some of them. She told

of the improving prospects of the college, and mentioned several gifts

that had been made during the year. The most important news was the

statement that one generous donor had given the whole sum needed to

build a handsome dormitory,—the first Radcliffe dormitory,—and at this

news there was loud applause.

The address that followed by the President of Harvard—a dignified and

scholarly address—showed deep sympathy with the aims of college girls,

many of whom had gained their degrees at the cost of certain things that

most young girls might think more attractive. He called attention to the

fact that the experiment of the higher education of women had lasted now

for two generations, with satisfactory results. He added that the

degrees about to be granted had been properly won, for they represent as

hard a training as the more vigorous young men receive, and he concluded

with a hope that some at least of the women graduates might show

themselves possessed of the creative faculty, and add something to the

world’s stock of knowledge.

“Aren’t the Seniors to take any part? Isn’t there a valedictory or

something of that kind?” asked Edith of her neighbor Nora, as a little

pause followed the President’s address.

“Oh, no, that isn’t the way. I suppose it’s the only college in the

country where the class has no preparation for Commencement.”

“It’s much the best way,” said Mr. Blair, overhearing what the girls

said. “A great deal of needless effort is wasted on useless speeches for

Commencement. It’s as fatiguing to the audience as to the Seniors

themselves. This way, it seems to me, is much best. It is so simple and

dignified.”

“Yes, but some people are disappointed at not seeing the class

celebrities,” responded Edith. “Of course we know something about

Clarissa and Lois and Pamela and the others who have distinguished

themselves.”

“Not to mention Julia,” interposed Nora.

“Yes, naturally; well, we know all these girls by sight, but there must

be many here who have never seen them, and who would be very glad to

know who’s who.”

“Well, they are all there; and if we listen, we may be able to fit the

right name to the right girl.”

Of all in that great audience, perhaps no one was more disappointed than

Angelina at the simplicity of the programme. Julia had had a card of

invitation sent her, and she had come in a wonderful yellow hat covered

with large pink flowers, and a gown of the brightest pink gingham. She

had fully expected that Julia would be the centre of interest, and she

was really grieved that one who had been so kind to her had not been

given an opportunity at least to sing or play something from the

operetta. Besides, she had a personal disappointment in the fact that

she could not present to Julia the immense bouquet that she had brought

with her from Shiloh. She had had the whole scene planned. In the midst

of a burst of applause she would advance toward the stage, and, with a

curtsy that she had been practising, fling the bouquet at Julia’s feet,

at the close of her performance, whatever it was. But now Julia was no

more conspicuous than the others of the class. She had neither sung nor

made an oration, and Angelina herself had had no opportunity for a

dramatic appearance before the audience. Her curtsy had been practised

in vain; and Angelina, as she grasped the flowers, looked decidedly

woe-begone.

But at last the Seniors were passing in single file toward the platform

to receive their degrees, and each girl as her name was called received

the crimson-tied parchment from the hands of the President. Before the

Seniors several Alumnæ received their M.A. But the receiving of the

degrees in the presence of that great audience was not unalloyed bliss.

Even Lois and Pamela with _summa cum_, and Clarissa and Julia and others

with their _magnas_, and Polly and Ruth with _cum laude_, felt a thrill

of sadness as they passed down the steps in front of the dignified

statue of Josiah Quincy.

Their undergraduate days were over!

That evening as Alumnæ they were cordially welcomed to an Alumnæ dinner

by the older graduates, and if they felt uncomfortably warm wearing

their long black gowns over their white dresses, there were

compensations; for there was a satisfaction when Clarissa responded to

one of the toasts to hear her speech called the wittiest ever made by a

graduate, for Clarissa belonged to the whole class. Then, too, some of

Polly’s songs were so enthusiastically received that it was a delight to

remember that two others of the class, Julia the composer of the music

and Ruth who had written the words, shared the credit with the gay

singer.

At dusk the gay crowd wandered out on the lawn, where the Glee Club

sang, and old friends gathered in little groups to talk over the

happenings of the past year.

“In a year _we_ shall be old graduates,” said Ruth with a sigh; “already

I begin to feel the change. It seems as if everything _has_ been, as

if—”

“Nonsense,” interposed Julia, “everything is to be. Our undergraduate

days are past, and yet I doubt that any of us would really care to live

them over again. We can be thankful for what we have learned here, but

after all, the sooner we can take our places in the world, the better.

College life at the best is selfish—”

“There—there, Julia, don’t preach! Look at Fay House. It is almost

picturesque.”

As they stood at the gate, the two girls turned and gazed at the old

building, whose outlines in the dusk showed dimly through the screen of

elms. Lights shone from some of its upper windows, and it looked like a

stately palace.

This was undoubtedly the thought in Julia’s mind as she cried, turning

away, “Good-bye, Palace of Learning,” while Ruth added, “Good-bye, great

Class of 189—.”

Truly, it _had_ been a great class, but its undergraduate days were

over.

[Illustration: Little, Brown, and Company Logo]

HELEN LEAH REED’S

“BRENDA” BOOKS