Brenda's cousin at Radcliffe

by Helen Leah Reed

After the prayer, and the singing of “Integer Vitæ” by the Glee Club, the President of Radcliffe congratulated the class on their four years’ work, and on the special honors that had come to some of them. She told of the improving prospects of the college, and mentioned several gifts that had been made during the year. The most important news was the statement that one generous donor had given the whole sum needed to build a handsome dormitory,—the first Radcliffe dormitory,—and at this news there was loud applause.

The address that followed by the President of Harvard—a dignified and scholarly address—showed deep sympathy with the aims of college girls, many of whom had gained their degrees at the cost of certain things that most young girls might think more attractive. He called attention to the fact that the experiment of the higher education of women had lasted now for two generations, with satisfactory results. He added that the degrees about to be granted had been properly won, for they represent as hard a training as the more vigorous young men receive, and he concluded with a hope that some at least of the women graduates might show themselves possessed of the creative faculty, and add something to the world’s stock of knowledge.

“Aren’t the Seniors to take any part? Isn’t there a valedictory or something of that kind?” asked Edith of her neighbor Nora, as a little pause followed the President’s address.

“Oh, no, that isn’t the way. I suppose it’s the only college in the country where the class has no preparation for Commencement.”

“It’s much the best way,” said Mr. Blair, overhearing what the girls said. “A great deal of needless effort is wasted on useless speeches for Commencement. It’s as fatiguing to the audience as to the Seniors themselves. This way, it seems to me, is much best. It is so simple and dignified.”

“Yes, but some people are disappointed at not seeing the class celebrities,” responded Edith. “Of course we know something about Clarissa and Lois and Pamela and the others who have distinguished themselves.”

“Not to mention Julia,” interposed Nora.

“Yes, naturally; well, we know all these girls by sight, but there must be many here who have never seen them, and who would be very glad to know who’s who.”

“Well, they are all there; and if we listen, we may be able to fit the right name to the right girl.”

Of all in that great audience, perhaps no one was more disappointed than Angelina at the simplicity of the programme. Julia had had a card of invitation sent her, and she had come in a wonderful yellow hat covered with large pink flowers, and a gown of the brightest pink gingham. She had fully expected that Julia would be the centre of interest, and she was really grieved that one who had been so kind to her had not been given an opportunity at least to sing or play something from the operetta. Besides, she had a personal disappointment in the fact that she could not present to Julia the immense bouquet that she had brought with her from Shiloh. She had had the whole scene planned. In the midst of a burst of applause she would advance toward the stage, and, with a curtsy that she had been practising, fling the bouquet at Julia’s feet, at the close of her performance, whatever it was. But now Julia was no more conspicuous than the others of the class. She had neither sung nor made an oration, and Angelina herself had had no opportunity for a dramatic appearance before the audience. Her curtsy had been practised in vain; and Angelina, as she grasped the flowers, looked decidedly woe-begone.