Bea reached for Robbie with one arm, grasped Lila with the other, and went skipping after the rest of the seniors over the lawn to their class tree. She dragged them under its spreading branches to the centre of the throng that had gathered in the June twilight. Berta was already there, mounted on a small platform that had been built against the trunk in preparation for the morrow’s Class Day ceremonies.
“She looks pretty decent,” whispered Bea to Robbie in order to frustrate the queer sensation in her throat at sight of the eager face laughing above them on this last evening together before the deluge of commencement guests. “I hope the alumnæ who are wandering around admire our taste in presidents.”
“Maybe,” Robbie spoke reflectively, “they’re almost as much interested in their classmates as we are in ours.”
“Um-m,” said Bea, “why, maybe so they are. I never thought of that before. Robbie, you’re my liberal education. Now, then, attention! Berta is raising her hand to mark time for the songs to be rehearsed for to-morrow.”
But Berta’s hand dropped at sound of a shout from across the campus. “There!” she exclaimed, “the sophomores are coming.”
They certainly were coming, on a double-quick march, two by two, shouting for the seniors. As they approached the shouting changed to singing. When they reached the tree, they spread out and joining hands went skipping, still viva voce, around the seniors who watched them, silent and smiling. The air was sweet with the cool, spicy breath of spruces. Lila thought that she could even smell the roses in the garden beyond the evergreens. She lifted her face toward the soft evening sky, and her mouth grew wistful. Bea caught a glimpse of it, and immediately became voluble if not eloquent.
“This is impromptu,” she commented, generous with her least thoughts. “I enjoy impromptus, except speeches—or that last lecture when the man couldn’t read his own notes. Now my history which is to astonish the world to-morrow will doubtless glitter with extemporaneous wit which has cost me two weeks of meditation. Likewise this impromptu on the spur of the moment——”
“I think it’s beautiful,” said Robbie. She was watching Berta’s eyes as the last lingering strains died away. Oh, dear! why did they sing that good-bye serenade again? Berta was going to cry. Hark! A robin’s twilight call rose melodiously from the heart of a shadowy spruce. In the thrill of it Robbie felt the sting of sudden tears. She turned to Bea.
“Now I know how Berta feels when she listens to music. I’m beginning to understand. But I think a robin is different from a brass band.”
“Is it now? You astonish me.” Bea squeezed her understandingly, nevertheless. “I know. Being with Lila has taught me a lot. She is like a windharp—every touch finds a response. Berta’s a violin, I guess. It takes skill to play on her. And you—oh, I believe you’re a splendid big drum. You’ve been marking time for the rest of us all the four years. As for me, I’m only an old tin horn. You need to spend all your breath to get any music. Even then it isn’t sickeningly sweet, so to speak. Still for an audience in sympathy with the performer——”