But the sunshine lasted, Marie planted the ivy,--and the college gardener carefully replanted it later, "'cause them gals will be that disapp'inted if it don't live,"--the cla.s.s sang Helen's song, and the odes, orations and addresses were all duly delivered.

Then, as Bob flippantly remarked, the fun began. For Mr. Wales had chartered three big touring cars and invited the "Merry Hearts" to go out to Smugglers' Notch for luncheon, with Mrs. Adams, who had never been in an auto before, for chaperon and himself, Will, and Jim Watson as escorts and chauffeurs.

By the time they got back the campus was festooned with j.a.panese lanterns, little tables ready for bowls of lemonade stood under all the biggest trees, and a tarpaulin dotted with camp chairs covered a roped-off enclosure near the back steps of College Hall.

"You've got tickets, father," Betty explained, "so you can sit down in there and listen to the music. Will, you're to call for me."

"For Miss Ayres," Will amended calmly. "Watson is going to take you."

Judge and Mrs. Watson had seats too, so Eleanor and Mr. Blake, Betty and Jim, and Madeline and Will wandered off together, two and two, enjoying s.n.a.t.c.hes of the concert, exploring the campus, and engaging in a most exciting "Tournament"--Madeline's idea of course--to see who could drink the most lemonade. Will was ahead, with Madeline a close second, when a mysterious whistle sounded from the second floor of the Hilton.

"Oh, good-bye, d.i.c.k," said Madeline briskly, holding out her hand. "It's time for you to go. Shall I see you to-morrow or not till I get to New York?"

"Have we really got to go so soon?" asked Will sadly.

Betty nodded. "Or at least we've got to go and put on old dresses, so as to be ready to join in our cla.s.s march."

"Why can't we march too?" demanded Mr. Blake.

"Because you're not Harding, 19--," said Madeline with finality.

And so, half an hour later, another procession a.s.sembled on the spot where the Ivy Day march had started that morning. But this time 19-- was wearing its oldest clothes and heaviest shoes and didn't care whether it rained or not. Four and five abreast they marched, round the campus, up Main Street and back, round and round the campus again. "Just as if we hadn't torn around all day until we're ready to drop," Eleanor Watson said laughingly. It is a perfectly senseless performance, this "cla.s.s march," which is perhaps the reason why every cla.s.s revels in it.

But the procession was moving more slowly and singing with rather less enthusiasm, when a small A.D.T. approached the leaders. "Is Miss Marie Howard in this bunch?" he demanded. "She orter be at the Burton, but she ain't."

"Yes, here I am," called Marie quickly, and the small boy lit a sputtering match, so that she could sign his book and read her telegram.

It was from Christy: "Awfully sorry can't come for supper. Writing."

"How perfectly dreadful," cried Marie, repeating the message to Bob, who was standing beside her. Bob pa.s.sed on the bad news, and the procession broke up into little groups to discuss it.

"Why don't you appoint some one to take her place right now?" suggested Bob. "Then she can sit up all night and get her remarks ready. She won't have much time to-morrow."

Marie looked hastily around her and caught sight of Betty Wales standing under a j.a.panese lantern that was still burning dimly.

"Betty!" she called, and Betty hurried over to her.

"I think we ought to fill Christy's place now," whispered Marie. "Shall I appoint Eleanor Watson or have her elected?"

"Have her elected," said Betty, as promptly as if she had thought it all out beforehand.

"Then will you propose her?"

Betty shook her head. "That wouldn't do. Eleanor knows how I feel toward her. It must come from the people who haven't wanted her. They're all here, I think." Betty peered uncertainly through the gloom to make sure that Jean and her friends and the Blunderbuss were still out. "If the whole cla.s.s wants her badly enough, they'll think of her."

Marie stepped out into the light of the one lantern and called the cla.s.s to order. "It's a queer time to have a cla.s.s-meeting," she said, "and I'm not sure that it's const.i.tutional, but who cares about that? You all know about Christy and as Bob Parker says the new toastmistress ought to have all the time there is left. So please make nominations."

"Why don't you appoint some one, Marie?" called Alice Waite sleepily.

"Because the toastmistress who presides over our supper ought to be the choice of her cla.s.s," said Marie firmly.

"Madam president,"--Jean Eastman's clear, sharp voice broke the silence. "It's a good deal to ask of any one, to step in at the last minute like this. Very few of us are capable of doing it,--of making a success of it, I mean. In fact I only know of one person that I should be absolutely sure of. Fortunately no one deserves such an appointment more truly. I nominate Eleanor Watson."

A little thrill swept over the "queer" cla.s.s-meeting. Everybody had known more or less about the bitter feud between Jean and Eleanor, and very few people had had the least suspicion that it had ended. Indeed even Betty and Eleanor had not been sure how far Jean's friendliness could be counted upon. Betty, standing back in the shadows where Marie had left her, gave a little gasp of amazement and clutched Bob's arm so hard that Bob protested.

"I second that motion, Miss President." It was the Blunderbuss, and her stolid face grew hot and red in the darkness, as she wondered if any one who knew that she didn't belong to 19-- now would question her right to take part in the meeting. "But I was bound to do it," she reflected. "I guess she isn't the kind of girl I thought she was. Anyhow I didn't mean to hurt her feelings before, and this will sort of make up."

"Any other nominations?" inquired Marie briskly.

There was silence and then somebody began to clap. In a minute the whole meeting was clapping as hard as it could.

"I guess we don't need ballots," said Marie, when she could be heard.

"All in favor say aye."

There was a regular burst of ayes.

"Those opposed?"

Silence again.

"There's a unanimous vote for you," cried Bob Parker eagerly. "Speech from the candidate! Betty, you're killing my arm!"

"Speech!" The cla.s.s took up Bob's cry.

"Where are you, Eleanor?" called Marie, and Eleanor, coming out from behind a big bush said, "I'll try to do my best--and--thank you." It wasn't a brilliant speech to come from the girl who has often been called Harding's most brilliant graduate, but it satisfied everybody, even Betty.

"I did it just to show you that I've got the idea," Jean Eastman muttered sulkily, jostling Betty in the crowd; and that was satisfactory too. Indeed when Betty went to bed that night she confided to the green lizard that she hadn't a single thing left to bother about at Harding.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE GOING OUT OF 19--

Next morning came the really important part of commencement,--the getting of your diploma, or, to speak accurately, the getting of somebody's else diploma, which you could exchange for your own later.

"Let's stand in a big circle," suggested Madeline Ayres, "and pa.s.s the diplomas round until each one comes to its owner."

It wasn't surprising that Eleanor Watson, with her newly acquired duties as toastmistress, should keep getting outside the circle to consult various toasters and members of the supper committee; but it did seem as if Betty Wales might stay quietly in her place. So thought the girls who had noticed that Carlotta Young, the last girl in the line that went up for diplomas had not received any. Carlotta was a "prod"; it was only because she came at the end of the alphabet that she was left out, but thanks to Betty's fly-away fashion of running off to speak to some junior ushers, and then calling the Blunderbuss, whose mother wanted to see her a minute, n.o.body could find out positively who it was that had been "flunked out" of 19--.

The next excitement took place when the cla.s.s, strolling over to the Students' Building to have luncheon with the alumnae--why, they were alumnae themselves now!--met a bright-eyed, brown-haired little girl, walking with a tall young man whose fine face was tanned as brown as an Indian's.

"Don't you know me, 19--?" called the little girl gaily.

"Why, it can't be--it is T. Reed!" cried Helen Adams, rushing forward.

"And her Filipino," shrieked Bob Parker wildly.