Commencement morning rose upon Montrose clear, bright, and hot. Almost with the first dawn of the early day the hum of busy preparation began. Every hour of the previous day and night had brought parents and friends, some from great distances, to attend the celebration.

The quiet town swarmed with strangers, all with faces turned toward the large brick building which, standing boldly prominent on its hill, had a welcoming look, as if the roses around it, that filled the air with their delicious fragrance, had blossomed that morning in new and charming beauty.

The lawn, plentifully besprinkled with small flower-beds, was elsewhere one broad sheet of velvet green; and the blossoms of every variety and every hue crowded the beds so cheerfully, so merrily, that many parents lingered as they passed them, their hearts warming at the sight of the Eden in which their daughters had lived.

Commencement exercises were to be held in the large hall, to which ushers appointed for that purpose took all the visitors before the entrance of the 261 school, so it really made quite an imposing show when Miss Ashton, arm in arm with the president of the Board of Trustees, came slowly in, the gentlemen composing the board following, then the teachers, and after them the pupils in their gay holiday dresses. The senior class, of course the most prominent, coming onto the stage with the other dignitaries.

There was nothing of peculiar interest in the exercises that followed. Commencements all over the country are much the same. The four young ladies who were to read their essays acquitted themselves well. Gladys, to her father’s great delight, with her soft Southern voice, her sparkling face, and her easy, self-possessed, graceful ways, was the undoubted favorite. A storm of applause followed the reading, and bouquets of flowers fell around her in great profusion.

It was the bestowing of the diplomas that attracted the most attention.

There was something touching in the gentle smile of the aged president as, calling each member of the class by her name, he spoke a few Latin words and handed her the parchment that made her for life an alumna of Montrose Academy. It was almost as if he had laid his hand on her head in benediction.

The pleasant dinner that followed was the next marked event of the day. To this all the school, and as many invited guests as could be accommodated, sat down, and the large hall was full of the cheerful 262 voices of those who had come to congratulate and those who were congratulated. Nothing could have made a more fitting ending to the home-life of the busy year; so many kindly, cheering words spoken, so much of hearty encouragement for the coming year.

Pupils and teachers, some of them together for the last time, but hardly among them an exception to the tender affection which bound them together.

Susan Downer had been graduated. She held her diploma in her hand as she went off the stage with the others, but she was far from happy. “Miss Ashton is glad to have me go,” she thought. “She neither respects nor loves me.”

No one noticed her dejection. Amidst the general happiness she seemed to herself forgotten, almost shunned. “And I had hoped,” she thought, “to make this such a triumphal day!”

It would be idle to waste any sympathy on Susan. There is an old adage, “As you make your bed, so must you lie in it.” She had done a dishonorable, untrue thing, and had repented only over its consequences.

It is very sad but true, that what we have once done, or left undone, said, or not said, can never be recalled. No repentance can efface its memory; no tears can blot it out; and only one, the great, kind Father, can forgive.

Susan to the last day of her life will have that act clinging to her. She can never forget it. 263

The moral is obvious, needing no words to make it plainer.

Immediately after dinner the school broke up and the departures began.

The farewells that were spoken, the tears that were shed, the oft-repeated kisses that were given, it would be difficult to tell.

By twilight the large building began to have a desolated look. Miss Ashton, pale and tired, stood bravely in a doorway, kissed and wiped away tears, and silently blessed pupil after pupil in rapid succession.

The Rock Cove party considerately made their farewells brief, and taking Marion with them hurried to the evening train that was to carry them home. Then down over the building settled the beautiful June twilight, and the year of study was over.