“Tears, idle tears, I know not why ye fall,—
Tears from the depth of some divine despair.”
During May the class had had many attentions paid it by the other undergraduates, as well as by different professors and their wives,—“a continuous performance,” as Polly phrased it, of farewells; and that girl would indeed have been stony-hearted who had not felt that all these things had made her parting with Cambridge a little harder. There had come a lull in these festivities during the examination season of early June, for in comparison with all other examination periods this one had an enormous importance for many Seniors. Even girls who had done well throughout their course showed an unnecessary nervousness, and were sincere in fearing that in some unexpected way they might lower their records. Few of them, perhaps, expected to fail, but those girls who had set their hearts on a degree summa cum, magna cum, or even simply cum laude, felt that much depended on the marks of these final examinations.
But when the examinations were at an end, worry, too, departed, and few indeed were the Seniors who did not enter whole-heartedly into the pleasures of these last days.
The work of the various class committees had been completed some weeks before, and to the credit of the class all had worked together harmoniously. Even in the election of the committees most little rivalries and jealousies had disappeared, and if in all instances precisely the right girl was not in the right place, no one criticised or found fault. As Class President Annabel was Chairman of the General Committee, Ruth of the Invitation Committee, Julia was Chairman of the Committee on Class Exercises, Clarissa was chief of the Photograph Committee, and Pamela, in spite of her protestations, had a place on the Baccalaureate Committee.
So energetic had Clarissa been as Chairman of her committee and so conscientious in securing the best photographs that some of her classmates made really pathetic complaints.
“Sometimes, when I think that I am going to have an hour of leisure, an hour when I may sink in the depths of my easy-chair and refresh myself with Meredith,—George, not Owen,—there comes a gentle tapping at the door, and I rise to receive a note reminding me that I am part of a group that is to be photographed under the broiling noon sun, and that I am especially requested to wear a pleasanter expression than usual. I belong to so many groups,” concluded Polly sadly, “that my Senior May has been one long noonday glare of sittings before the camera. When there was nothing else happening, some amateur was taking a snap-shot, to add me to her album of Radcliffe views. I cannot tell you how many times I have been caught in unconscious attitudes, crossing the tennis court, or leaning against a tree, or seated on the steps. I always try to look my best at such times, because—”
“You spoke of unconscious attitudes,” commented a listening Junior.
“Hush, child! When you are a Senior you will understand things better,” replied the irrepressible Polly; “and to prevent further criticism, I will give you a specimen of my most unconscious smile,” and the younger girl accepted Polly’s latest photograph—a full length in cap and gown.
“My time for teasing you, Polly, will come to-morrow,” said the Junior, “for you may be my vis-à-vis in a canoe, and if you are not careful I may tip you—just a little way—into the river.”