"An idea came floating, An idea came floating, An idea came floating, And struck its empty head."

Each Senior did her part well, maintaining an expression which was the picture of grief. At the close of the song, Miss Cresswell advanced to the reading-stand. She a.s.sumed an oratorical tone. There was a note of pathos in all she said. "There came to Exeter Hall some ten months ago," she began, "the cla.s.s whose early demise we are now making famous with these ceremonies. They were young then. They continued to remain young--"

"So young," came in a sad-voiced chorus from the singers.

"They were green,--they remained so until their pa.s.sing away. I repeat, they were green--"

"Oh, so green," came the sobbing chorus.

"The faculty looked upon them and sighed, a great sigh of disappointment.

Yet with that n.o.ble heartedness, that philanthropic desire to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, minister unto the feeble-minded which marks our honored Dr. Morgan and her fellow workers, they took up the burden, determined to do their best. Yet, despite their great efforts, the cla.s.s did not advance as other cla.s.ses have done. Nor yet could it retrograde for it stood in a position where any backward movement was impossible. It was known throughout Exeter as the 'caudal appendage' cla.s.s, being 'away back.'

"The Seniors, too, did all that lay in their power to enlighten these Middlers both intellectually and morally. But our efforts were like 'casting pearls before swine.' The Middlers were not only no better for our efforts, but seemed wholly unconscious that they stood in need of moral and intellectual support.

"Yet none of us regret the work that we did in their behalf. We planted the seed, but the soil was barren. Our efforts toward their cultivation was like breathing a concord of sweet sound into a vacuum. There was no volume of matter to perpetuate and carry it forth. It is not that we wish to censure them. Lacking the capacity to enjoy the higher life of school, we can not blame them that they amused themselves with mere toys. We Seniors who wear the philosopher's cap and gown must bear in mind that it would ill become the clown or jester. We listen to the music which rolls down the ages; but the tinkle of the bells won the ears of the Middlers.

It is ever so. The world cannot be all of the higher ideal element. They cannot all be Seniors."

She paused to touch the colors of the Middler cla.s.s--green and white.

"These are the symbols of the late lamented Middler cla.s.s. How appropriate! The white represents the conditions of the examination sheets they habitually handed in--not a line, not a letter. Blank, quite blank.

It is the opinion of the faculty that this also represented the condition of their brains. I do not fully agree with this. I believe that at rare intervals, and when under the influence of proper environment, for example, the presence of some Senior, the minds of the Middlers did receive some impression;--slight, we acknowledge. Yet we hold an impression, a faint suggestion of an idea, was there.

"The second color! Green! How beautiful, how appropriate. It represents our lamented Middlers as they stood before the world. They were so verdant!

"As to the age of the departed cla.s.s, both much and little might be said.

The records show that as a cla.s.s they existed just ten short months; to the faculty and Seniors it seems like ten long years.

"During their sojourn, the hospital of Exeter has been filled with--teachers suffering from nervous prostration. Dr. Morgan's ebony locks have turned silver. During the holidays Miss Wilhelm, who tried to teach them cla.s.sics, in a fit of desperation sought refuge in matrimony.

We might speak more fully of the effects of their being among us were it not that we believe in interring the evil they have done with their bones.

"With this short eulogy, I close. Miss Stoner, a Senior, who has suffered much because of the shortcomings of the Middlers, will sing a solo appropriate to the occasion, the others joining in the chorus."

Landis advanced. Azzie struck up an accompaniment, while the whole cla.s.s of Seniors came out strong on the refrain.

"They were so young, this Middler cla.s.s of ours.

They brought to mind the newly-opened flowers.

They to the gra.s.ses closely were related.

They were so green, so unsophisticated.

(Refrain)

Softly speak, and lowly bow your head, We are alone. The Middler cla.s.s is dead.

"We did our best. No duty left undone Weighs on our hearts at the setting of the sun.

What though their choice was weeds instead of flowers Censure not us. The fault was never ours.

From early dawn until the dim twilight We were to them a bright and shining light.

(Refrain) Weep if you can; slowly, lightly tread.

They are gone. The Middler cla.s.s is dead.

Th' Middler--cla.s.s--is--d-e-a-d."

With this, the Seniors arose. Six again took possession of the long box.

The procession filed slowly from the room, while Azzie played a dirge.

The Middlers and Freshmen followed after them, and the laughing and chattering began again. Every one was humming "The Middler--cla.s.s--is dead."

The line of girls pa.s.sed down the main hall, the audience following them to see what new thing was to take place.

The members of the faculty, with Dr. Morgan, stood here. At the sight of their smile-wreathed faces, the gravity of the Seniors gave way. Landis laughed aloud. The others followed her example. The lines broke. The girls gathered about the teachers, talking and making merry over their escapade.

"I never realized what a nervous strain it is to control oneself so long,"

said Nora, joining Dr. Morgan. "I felt as though I must shriek and laugh, and there I had to sit and pretend to be overcome with sorrow."

Dr. Morgan had been glancing over a special edition of the evening paper.

She folded it quickly as Nora came up to her. "You did admirably, Miss O'Day," she said. "I could not be present all the while."

Nora O'Day did not hear. She was leaning forward, her lips parted; her eyes, bright with excitement, were upon the paper.

"May I see this for a moment, Dr. Morgan?" she asked excitedly. "What is it about the strike?"

She had the paper in her hand, reading the article before Dr. Morgan had time to reply. It was a full resume of the trouble at Bitumen from early fall until the present, telling of the threatened attack upon Superintendent Hobart and the new miners and the call for State troops.

The correspondent prophesied that the militia could not arrive in time to prevent bloodshed, the capital being two hundred miles from the scene of trouble, and the railway up the mountain having already been destroyed by the miners.

Nora grasped the meaning instantly. There was no mention made of the name of Dennis O'Day. He was not a miner. In the eyes of the world, he had no power. Miners themselves did not realize that it was he alone who instigated the strike, and that their leaders had been his choice.

Outwardly, Dennis O'Day had washed his hands of the whole affair. So long as he escaped legal responsibility, he would shrug his shoulders, and stand by to watch the fight. He could be eliminated without effecting the result. But Nora O'Day, who understood her father as no one else had ever understood him, saw his work here. She knew that for years he had been the unseen moving power.

The bubble of laughter and fun was about her. She looked up piteously into Dr. Morgan's face, her lips trembling with emotion. She loved her father.

Shame and fear for him overwhelmed her.

"I--I know--some--some people there. That is why I--I was anxious."

"I wish you would not mention the matter to anyone. We see no reason to distress Miss Hobart unnecessarily. Her knowing the condition of affairs would result in needless worry without helping matters any."

"Why--Elizabeth--is she--has she--"

"Her father, you know, Miss O'Day, is the superintendent of the Bitumen mines."

At that Nora O'Day gave a startled cry, and buried her face in her hands.

"I didn't--know--I didn't know. Poor Elizabeth--" she sobbed.

Her behavior was claiming the attention of others. To shield her from the attention of the pa.s.sing throng, Dr. Morgan drew her within the private office. She antic.i.p.ated comforting an hysterical girl. But in a moment Miss O'Day controlled herself.

"When will the troops reach Bitumen?" she asked, drawing herself up, afire with purpose.

"Not before to-morrow night. That is the earliest possible time. It is presumed the miners, hearing of the call for help, will bring matters to a climax at once."

"Dr. Morgan, will you telephone McCantey's livery? They know my father down there. Tell them to send the man Jefferies if they can, and fast horses. Elizabeth Hobart and I will go to Bitumen to-night. I'll stop the trouble."

"Dear child, you're--crazy," said Dr. Morgan, surprised by such a suggestion.