The conflict of evidence in the case renders it difficult to decide whether Class Day is the gayest or the saddest of the college year. Certain graduates, being duly sworn, depose that it was the happiest day of their whole lives; an equal number—no, the Court will presume the better—a somewhat smaller number, refuses to testify at all, until kind Time has obliterated, or, at any rate, mitigated, important facts in the case; until, indeed, the memory of man goeth not, or goeth gently, to the harsh Contrary. Most of the Seniors bear witness as here followeth. Were too busy to notice their impressions distinctly; remember being blue at intervals, decidedly so in the evening. Think they felt jolly on the way to Saunders' Theatre behind the band; know they felt gloomy in Saunders'. Were worried at their own spreads; believe the strawberries gave out; had a very fair time at the other fellows' spreads. Got badly banged around the Tree; can swear they got more flowers off it than anybody else. Took good care of their families to the best of their knowledge and belief; took their mothers up to their rooms, when affected by the heat; did not see their sisters; saw very little of any other sisters. Enjoyed the singing of the Glee Club until it came to "College Days are Over" and "Fair Harvard"; began to feel a little out of sorts then, and grew more so after everybody had gone. Continued in same frame of mind until the wind-up at the club. How they felt after that some deponents say not, others testify to being still more depressed, and going to bed in decided gloom. On the whole, think the day was a sad one.

On the other hand, the testimony of the Juniors and under-classmen is overwhelmingly on the side of joy. So is that of the rank and file of the army of occupation. The generals, officers of the day, and provost-marshals of that army testify that it is a day of hard work and wearing responsibility. For on that day the largest stronghold of Trouserdom capitulates unconditionally, and from bastion to casemate is swept by the skirts of the invading battalions. Bright dresses everywhere dot the grass, and float over floors that for twelve months have known only the tread of the trousered boot. Some of the clubs even are surrendered, and only here and there is kept a hiding-place, to which the overpowered defenders may flee to rally on a cigar, or change their wilted armor. The garrison is enslaved almost to a man, each one being attached to the train of some conqueror. During the day the victors are content with such triumph, and show some clemency while their officers hold them in check; but when the shades of evening begin to fall, and the provost-marshals have grown tired, then the slavery is turned into a massacre. Scenes of carnage are everywhere, and the helpless captives are put to the fan without mercy. Some are merely tortured a little, others slaughtered outright, and at the end of the evening many a scalp goes forth dangling from a slender waist. On the other hand, however, it is a solace to reflect that some of the invaders are themselves captured, and paroled for life.

Dick Stoughton had declared that there was to be no tomfoolery for him. His people had gone abroad, and he would therefore incur no filial liabilities. He rarely went anywhere in society, and had no civilities to repay. He thanked Providence that "not one mother's daughter of 'em had any mortgage" on him. The only people he invited lived in the far West, and wouldn't come. It is often said that a man never enjoys his own Class Day; he would see about that. He called for volunteers in the good work. None of Ned Burleigh's relatives were coming East, so he agreed to stand on Dick's right hand and keep the strike with him. Randolph was also family-free and promised to join in the stand for liberty. These three organized as the Protective Brotherhood of Amalgamated Seniors.

The objects of the Brotherhood were declared to be lunch, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The first rule was to assist each other in obtaining nourishment and irrigation at the crowded "spreads." They were to do commissariat duty for no one. The second principle was to stand by each other through all the perils of the day; if any brother should be captured the others were to rescue him at once,—three men could resist better than one. They also arranged a plan of co-operation and mutual relief, by which any member could talk to any one he chose without fear of bondage. The strategic moves were as follows. If one of the three saw some one to whom he wanted to talk, he was to notify the others, who would stand at his back while he opened fire. A time limit of five minutes was to be allowed him. Brother Stoughton wanted to cut this down to two minutes, and Brother Randolph desired ten. The altercation roused suspicions in Brother Stoughton's mind, and insinuations on his part against Brother Randolph's sincerity; but Brother Burleigh smoothed over the incipient breach and compromised on five minutes. At the end of five minutes the fire was to be slackened, and half of the reserves called up by saying: "May I present my friend," etc. One of the fresh supports should then wheel to the front, and while he engaged the enemy, the other two should go off and find a non-union man,—a happy, irresponsible Junior, if possible, one of those important, conceited Juniors, who wear little silver ushers' pins, and think they are running the whole thing and having a glorious time. The two brethren were to tell this Junior that a very charming girl had asked particularly to have him presented. Then they should take him up to where their companion was holding his ground, throw the Junior into the action, and under cover of this diversion the three would retreat and leave him to his fate, pleasant or otherwise, as the case might be.

Hudson thought the plan an excellent one, but was precluded from joining by family cares. Holworthy said "nonsense," and also expected to be busy all day. Gray declared it was all out of keeping with the spirit of the day, and indignantly refused to have anything to do with it; whereupon the Amalgamated Brethren called him "scab," and threatened to shadow him during the evening. Jack Rattleton did not show much interest on either side, and indeed was not sure that he would stay up for Class Day at all. There was something the matter with Jack, probably the effects of his abnormal efforts during the examinations.

It rains on Class Day every fifth year, and as this was only the third, the weather was all right on the great morning. The vanguard of the invaders was first met in Saunders' Theatre, and there held in check and severely handled for an hour and a half. That was the last resistance offered, however; after that the bright, victorious masses swarmed everywhere, and reinforcements kept pouring in over the bridge. The Protective Brotherhood formed square immediately, and bravely cut its way through the opening spread at the Hemenway Gymnasium. It moved on the other spreads with equal success. There was a little friction early in the day betwixt Brothers Stoughton and Randolph, because the latter led into action with unnecessary frequency and boldness. He wanted to talk to some one every fifteen minutes, and the supporting tactics had to be put in operation too often to suit Dick. Furthermore, Randolph frequently ran over the time limit.

In the struggle round the Tree, the "gang" organized itself with great effect. Little Gray was mounted on Burleigh's shoulders, and with the others guarding him, tore down flowers enough for all his supporters. After the Tree, the Brotherhood prudently united again, and towards evening went cautiously to the Beck Hall spread. They had hardly got on the grounds before Randolph in an undertone ejaculated the omnisignificant, "By Jove!"

"Are you going in again?" demanded Stoughton, impatiently. "You'll tire us out. We shall do this thing once too often, the first thing you know, and one of us will get stuck."

"You fellows needn't bother about relieving me this time," answered Randolph, graciously, and off he went. He was not seen again during the evening.

"That is what I call rank desertion," exclaimed Dick, in disgust. "I have been afraid all along he'd do that. The beggar uses us all day until she turns up, then we can shift for ourselves."

"Treason, treason!" cried Burleigh, "let's follow him up and make it pleasant for him."

"No," growled Dick, "let these squires of dames run their heads into the yoke if they want to. Come on, old man, you and I will stand by each other, anyway, and live and die free men. Let's strike the grub; that Tree shindy has made me ravenous."

But the "grub" was hard to "strike." Pale famine threatened over the lawn of Beck Hall. There was a surging mass around the table in the tent, and as fast as a dish was brought in (which was not very fast) it was snapped up by the foragers with cries of "For a lady, for a lady." There was little hope for a free patriot guerilla among these enthralled commissaries of the conquerors.

"Look here," said Dick, "I notice the dishes are brought out of that door. The thing for us to do is to trace these waiters up to their source."

They followed this Stoughtonian idea, and worked up stream against the waiters, until they arrived at the fountain of supply in the cellar of the Hall. The springs were very nearly exhausted, but there was enough salad to load two plates. A demijohn contained one glassfull of claret punch. For this they matched, and Dick won it. Then the explorers returned up-stairs, with their brilliantly won booty. Just as they were emerging on the lawn, Dick ahead with his plate in one hand and the glass in the other, they heard an exclamation of "Why, there's Mr. Stoughton!" A huge frigate was bearing right down upon them, with all sail set, and four light craft in tow!

Dick's knees shook together, and with a look of astonished horror, he groaned, "Good Lord! How did they ever get here?"

"Quick!" said Burleigh; "give me the punch. For Heaven's sake save that. You've got to take your hat off. Hang it, man, where are your manners?"

In his confusion Dick handed his glass to Ned, and bowed. The next minute the enemy was upon him.

"Oh, Mr. Stoughton, I'm so glad we've found you. You must be surprised to see us, aren't you? So good of you to ask us. I didn't expect to get here, but the girls insisted that they could not miss your Class Day. So we've come all the way from Omaha. Think of that! You are the only friend we've met. Oh! where did you get all that salad?"

"Ah—er—delighted,—er—so glad you could come," murmured Dick. "Brought the whole family too—this is awfully jolly. By-the-way, let me present my friend, Mr. Burleigh."

Dick turned round for his supporter. Edward was gone; so was the punch.

Ned Burleigh fled round a corner seeking a secluded nook that he had marked down for emergencies. His intentions were perfectly loyal; he meant to return and succor his ally after he had safely disposed of the food and liquid. But he had not gone a dozen steps before he encountered Steve Hudson with a weary look in his eye. That organ lit up when it fell on the stout chum and his burden.

"Oh, Ned! where did you get it? Give it to me."

"There may be a little more where this came from," answered Ned, sweetly.

"Give it to me, Ned. I want it for my mother. My whole family is starving on my hands."

"Hum," said Burleigh, suspiciously. "I think I will take it to her myself. I know this 'for a lady' dodge. If your statement is true, I want the credit of the sacrifice."

"Good," exclaimed Hudson, the weary look passing away entirely. "Come along. My sister has been disappointed at not seeing you all day."

The sister's alleged disappointment was not relieved, for she was not with the family at all. Two or three aunts and a pig-tailed cousin were. While Burleigh was yielding up his hard-earned spoils with a hollow, a very hollow grace, and receiving thanks, Steve Hudson disappeared, saying he would be back in a moment.

The pale, beseeching face of Dick, languishing among five women, rose before Ned's vision, but this was no time to think of his comrade;—he had to forage ice-cream for the aunts. Then he had to get some water; then he had to look for the escaped daughter, an unsuccessful quest. ("It's too bad to trouble you this way, Mr. Burleigh"); then he had to round up two small boys. ("The boys have no business here, I know, but they begged so hard to come"); then he had to take the pig-tail round the Yard; then more water ("Oh, if you could get some Apollinaris"); Apollinaris; then he had to order the carriage ("Where can Steve be? We can't go away without saying good-by to the boy, and telling him what a good time we have had"); then he had to put off the carriage; etc, etc, etc. And thus fell the last of the Amalgamated Seniors!

The carriages were beginning to leave. Ernest Gray got his family off among the first, and then went on a search.

He looked everywhere, as far as the outlying spread at the Agassiz; but unsuccessfully. He came to the conclusion that Class Day was about over, and began to think that it was not so merry as he had always thought it before. As he strolled back over the Delta, it occurred to him that he would not cross the old historic battle-ground often again—if at all. Memorial Hall was brightly illuminated. The light shone through the stained-glass windows, and showed the array of those who had done their duty. The window of '61 caught his eye most plainly. On the one half was a student listening to the trumpet, on the other he was going forth full armed. Over the Senior's head, the calm face of the Founder looked through the night into the West,—into the West, where spread the nation.

He did not go through the Yard, he walked slowly along behind it. He heard the sound of music, and between the buildings caught a glimpse of the enchanted quadrangle, the last bright transformation scene before the drop of the curtain. He wandered on and beneath a well-known window looked up, perhaps from force of habit. Then he stopped, for, though the open window was dark, he thought he saw a form in it. He went up-stairs and knocked at the door. "Come in," said Jack Rattleton's voice. The room was unlit, and Jack was sitting in the window-seat with his dog.

"Hello, old man," said Gray. "I haven't seen you since the Tree. Have you been up here by yourself all the evening?"

"Well, you see," drawled Jack. "Blathers was up here all alone, and I thought I'd sit with him a little while. I can amuse him better than I can a girl, you know."

Gray walked over to him, and for a long time the two men of opposite natures looked silently out of the window together. Below, they could see the Japanese lanterns, the white dresses, and all the gay throng—they could see them, but they didn't. They saw, above the elms, the belfry of Harvard Hall against the clear night sky. They saw the familiar outlines of the dark roofs and spires. Over all, they saw the tower of Memorial pointing to the stars. Up from the Yard floated, distinctly, the measures of the Anthem.