“Do you think a college freshman will remember how to gather eggs?” asked Mrs. Patience.
“This one will, you may be sure,” laughed Rose, “and how to make omelet, and custard, and cake with them when they are gathered. It’s a pity Great-Uncle Samuel never comes so I can show him how you have taught me to cook.”
It was a busy summer for Rose; she went over all the studies in which she would be examined for entrance to college, she sewed and gathered and tucked and hemmed, and when the September days came she packed her modest wardrobe in her new trunk with a curious mingling of dread and delight; dread at leaving the life she knew, the friends she had proved; delight in the new and wider world opening before her.
There had been talk of Mrs. Patience going with Rose, but it had not proved possible, so when one sunny September day the stage—the same stage that had brought her to Farmdale, stopped at the white gate, and her trunk was strapped on, with a mixture of tears and smiles the good-bys were said, and Rose settled herself in the same corner of the back seat she had occupied on that day which now seemed so far, far in the past, no longer a forlorn little figure, dingy, travel worn and friendless; but a trim young girl in a pretty grey suit, leaning out and waving her handkerchief in answer to those waved to her from nearly every house. For Rose’s friends included almost every one in Farmdale, and all her friends were interested in her start for college.
THE END