“And now, Marvelous Manager, you and I will continue our walk on the campus.”
It was almost four by the chimes clock on Hamilton Hall when Marjorie and Miss Susanna issued from the president’s house, arm in arm. Neither would ever forget that wonderful afternoon. It marked for Miss Susanna the re-union with a valued friend of long ago—Hamilton College. For Marjorie it marked the answering of a most perplexing question. She believed buoyantly that with the answer was bound to come a new era of fellowship on the campus, far greater than had ever before manifested itself among the students.
“I can’t really believe it’s true, Miss Susanna,” she said happily; “that you and I are actually walking together across the campus. I feel as though, all of a sudden; whisk! there’d come a magic wind and you’d disappear and I’d wake up to find myself walking along alone.”
“Not quite so bad as that. Let me tell you, I’m very real.” Miss Susanna gave Marjorie’s arm an only half gentle pinch. “There,” she said, “was that hard enough to convince you that I am not a campus sprite. I’m a crabbed old woman, ready to pinch if the occasion demands it.”
“I’m glad as can be you are real. I’m glad I know more now of how splendid you are than ever I knew before. I’m glad you’d rather have your own Marvelous Manager write the biography than even Prexy Matthews. I’m glad you have at last condescended to come and see me.” Marjorie had begun enthusiastically, gathering more enthusiasm as she rushed from one gladness on to another. She ended with a satisfied little exhalation of breath.
“You are a compendium of gladnesses, child.” Miss Hamilton smiled very tenderly at the glowing, graceful girl at her side. “Well, it is good to be here; to walk the old green again, even though it isn’t very green at present. I used to love the campus, Marjorie. I experienced a queer little thrill that day when you told me your best friend at Hamilton was the campus. I loved it in the same way when I was a student here.”
“And you never told me you were a graduate of Hamilton,” Marjorie lightly reproached. She stopped short on the campus. “I think you ought to be pinched on that account.”
“You never asked me where I was educated,” Miss Susanna replied, chuckling.
“I always meant to. Somehow I never did.” Marjorie looked reflective. “You see, at first, I never felt you would like me to ask you any personal questions. After I came to know you well we had so many other things to talk about I never again thought of asking you. That must be the reason.” She gave a positive little nod.
“It must be,” the old lady agreed half jestingly. “I know that I used to be afraid you would say or do something, when first you came to the Arms to see me, that might cause me to dislike you. But you never did until the day we fell out about that snip of a girl who tried to run her car over me. I was a pig-headed, obstinate old chump that day, child.”