“Then it’s glad I am of that,” said Annie, rushing off with her empty tray, while the girls carried their heaped-up plates to the stairs and sat down to rest and feast.
“Well, we’ve ‘ushed’ our last ‘ush,’” said Katherine, “and the seniors are alums and we’re seniors. And if I do say it as shouldn’t, I think we’re a fine class. Do you know, our dress reform has made quite a little sensation? All the anxious alums who are sure every time they came back that the college is getting fashionable and haughty and good-for-nothing are patting us on the back.”
“They were pretty, too,” said Babbie, looking complacently at a grass stain on the front-breadth of hers. “But do you really think people noticed the difference?”
“Indeed they did,” said Rachel earnestly, “and I think——” she lifted a warning finger. “Why is it so still out there all of a sudden?”
“Prexy must be making a speech,” said Babbie, who was an authority on commencements, since she had stayed to all three to see the last of some adored senior. “I remember he did last year, when he thought they’d eaten enough. I was waiting for Marie Nelson, and I was so much obliged to him for ending things off.”
“Oh, I know,” said Rachel, setting down her plate and scrambling to her feet. “He announces the legacies to the college at collation. Let’s go in and hear how much money Harding has got this year.”
“I wouldn’t stir for a million dollars,” sighed Babbie wearily. “I’ll wait for you here.”
The other three reached the gallery just in time to hear a burst of half-hearted applause.
“That couldn’t have been a very big one,” whispered Katherine. “I suppose he begins with the smallest.”
Next came a gift for the library, which had suffered a good deal at the time of the fire, then a new European fellowship, and finally a ten thousand dollar legacy from the father of a prominent alumna.