There were neither examinations nor graduation exercises at the Coventry Institute. The only ceremony peculiar to the last day of school, except the farewells, was a little sermon from Mrs. Abbott, the principal, preceded by reading the average of reports for the year.

The day had come. All the smaller recitation-rooms were empty and the girls were gathered into the large school-room occupying their own seats, but each whispering softly to her neighbor, for rules were not strictly enforced on either the opening or closing days of school.

Upon the platform at one end of the room stood a green-covered library-desk with the large arm-chair by it which was always reserved for Mrs. Abbott. As they waited a servant came in and removed the chair, bringing into view a small old-fashioned hair-cloth sofa large enough to hold two persons comfortably.

“That means company,” was the universal whisper that went around among the girls, and almost before there could be any speculation upon who the guest might be the visitor himself followed the principal into the room. He was a tall, stout, middle-aged man with a splendid head that reminded the girls at once of the pictures of Agassiz.

As Mrs. Abbott took her seat on one end of the little sofa, with her usual pleasant bow to the scholars, she simply said, “My friend, Mr. Bellamy, will say a few words to you;” and the gentleman, with the ease of a long-practiced speaker, stepped to the little table and looked down with kindly inquiring eyes upon the young faces upturned to his.

The girls were well accustomed to speeches from visitors, and could almost have told how he would begin. In fact, Lily Dart, who was quite the wit of the school, had once written out several sentences which she called “openings,” and professed to be holding in reserve for any embarrassed orator who might be disconcerted by the stare of thirty pairs of critical eyes. Now, quoting from number one of her openings, she rapidly scrawled on a bit of paper for her desk-mate’s benefit, “Young ladies, my heart beats with mingled emotions—”

Lily was quite astray in her supposition. Mr. Bellamy said nothing about hearts, emotions, or young ladies; instead, with a look that seemed to include them all, he remarked in an easy conversational manner:

“My visit to my old friend, Mrs. Abbott, is made with the hope of persuading her to take a little girl so much younger than the custom of her school allows that I regard her consent as the greatest favor that can be granted to me. My little motherless granddaughter”—there was a little sudden straightening of his shoulders and lifting of his head here that looked to the bright, observant eyes watching him like a determined effort to keep dry eyes and a steady voice—“will seem to you,” he continued, with almost an appeal in his voice, “so babyish, and perhaps spoiled by a grandfather’s fond affection, that I must ask your kindest indulgence for her. Business calls me to Europe, and it will be a year before I can hope to see my little girl again. I should like to feel, in that long year of absence, that Ethel, my Elfie, I call her, was loved by the young people who will be her companions. I do not ask you to be kind to her; that I am sure you will be, but I wish I could feel sure that you will all love her.”

Mrs. Abbott beckoned to Miss Blake, the third-room teacher, and said a few words which made the latter go quietly out of the room, to return shortly with a colored nurse leading a most attractive-looking little creature who seemed almost like a baby, but in reality was nearly five years old.

This was Elfie, as the girls knew even before she sprang into her grandfather’s arms, and if any thing more than the words they had just heard had been needed to enlist their interest, the child’s appearance would have completed their conquest, and a very audible murmur of interest and admiration brought a suspicious glistening to Mr. Bellamy’s eyes, as he stood Elfie on the table with her arms still clinging to his neck. At a whisper from him the child lifted her lovely face from his breast and looked shyly for one moment at the girls, giving them a glimpse of pink cheeks, sweet, frank eyes, and a shy, smiling mouth, before the lovely face was buried again on her grandfather’s shoulder, and only a light, tossy handful of curls was visible for their admiration. Candace, who stood in statuesque black dignity as befitted her vast person and royal name, was studying anxiously the faces before her with the keen observation common among untutored people, and now let her solemn countenance break into a broad smile of satisfaction as she saw the impression her little charge had made. She came forward then at a sign from her master, and carried Elfie from the room, the girls’ eyes following them till the white dress and broad black sash disappeared through the door.

But Mr. Bellamy’s speech was not over, although only one more sentence related to the child he had just introduced to them.

“Let my Elfie be your little sister,” he said, with again that look of almost imploring appeal in his eyes which seemed so much like a question that nearly every girl involuntarily raised her right hand as if she felt that some expression of assent was needed.

An audience of boys would have given three cheers for the little sister and six more for the senator, for boys would have known in a moment that the speaker was the distinguished orator whose eloquence and uprightness had made him celebrated all over the country. But girls don’t hurrah, and, unfortunately, do not read the papers and keep informed in political matters. But the speaker was satisfied; his wonderfully expressive eyes told that as he gravely bowed and passed on to speech number two, as Kate Ashley called it in her diary.

Nothing so interesting as consigning a lovely baby girl to their care could be expected from speech number two; but the girls put on an expression of polite attention which gradually changed to enthusiastic interest as its very novel and delightful subject was unfolded to them.

Even very able speeches by noted speakers are rather tiresome to read, so it will be better to simply give the most important part of this one without going fully into detail.

Mrs. Bellamy Gray, Ethel’s mother, had been a pupil of Mrs. Abbott, and it was one of the wishes expressed during her last sickness that her little daughter should be educated at the same school. Of course, it had not been her wish to send her there till she was of a suitable age, but now that circumstances had arisen which obliged Mr. Bellamy to go to Europe he felt anxious to leave her with the friend who had been so dear to her mother.

If there had been time, he told his audience, he should have liked to tell them of the various plans for helping and comforting others that his daughter had left for him to carry out. There was a bed in St. John’s Hospital, a small fund for giving six poor children a yearly outing, a memorial window in the little mission chapel where she had a Sunday-school class; and all these things were named for his dear and only daughter, and he loved to think that in these pleasant ways her works would seem to live after her. There were still some other schemes to carry out, and among them a Bellamy prize for Coventry Institute.

“I do not intimate,” said the speaker, having arrived at this very interesting part of his discourse, “that any one of Mrs. Abbott’s scholars has need of tangible help; neither do I propose to offer a prize because I think a spur to correct action is necessary; but because my daughter loved the school I wish to associate her memory with it in a pleasant way. The best way of doing this will have to be a matter of experiment and as a sort of trial trip. I will make it this year a prize of three hundred dollars in gold. Your teacher, warned by some sad experience in the past, is opposed to any thing which subjects her young people to a prolonged mental strain, so it will not do to make it a scholastic prize, and through some prejudices of my own, not liking to make it a reward for elegant deportment, I shall be obliged to say the prize is for the most deserving. It shall be given upon the anniversary of this day, and the recipient shall be selected by the vote of the school.”

Truly this was an extraordinary prize, and the girls discussed it with animation all the afternoon and during the evening, which on the last day of school was more like a social gathering, for the day-scholars were always invited in and the sadness of farewell was cheered by games, music, and dancing.

They would all have been delighted to have little Elfie with them in these last hours, but the fond grandfather could not spare her, and one of the girls, who had a message to deliver to Mrs. Abbott in the parlor, reported that the child lay fast asleep in Mr. Bellamy’s arms, while he was trying, at great inconvenience to himself, to write letters at a table, and black Candace sat patiently in the hall waiting for the long-delayed summons to put her little missy to bed.

It was late when the day scholars went home, and the others went up-stairs to their rooms very quietly. They all had to pass the large corner room which was always given to visitors, and, although the light was turned very low, they could see through the half-closed door that Candace was trying to undress the little girl without waking her, and the senator, whose broad back was toward the door, was bending down to unbutton the little shoes, one of which he lifted and pressed to his lips just as the last pair of girls went by.

“Did you see that?” whispered Katie, with the tears starting to her eyes.

“Yes, isn’t he lovely, and doesn’t he love the little one?” answered Lily, with a nod.

“And isn’t she a dainty darling, and wont we love her and pet her when we come back next term!”