CHAPTER XXV.
Spring was forward in Hamilton that year. Mrs. Baxter, walking on the presidential portico at noon of a bright day in the third week of April complimented the extraordinary benignity of that usually coy month, by sporting the first white dress of the season.
A knot of irreverent students collected about the window of one of the college dormitories, catching glimpses of her snowy draperies fluttering from pillar to pillar of the porch, made merry over profane pleasantries, touching, "flourishing almond trees," and "antique angels."
"Wonder if she wears that red flannel night-cap to ward off the rheumatism!" said one, directing his puny arrow of wit at the "individualizing" scarlet scarf, now wound into a turban about her classic head, the silken fringes sweeping her shoulder.
"It is a piratical flag!" rejoined another. "And there! she is signalling some poor wretch on to his doom!"
The Lady President had waved her handkerchief to some one in or near the college, and halted at the top of the front steps to receive him.
"Who is the latest victim?" asked those in the rear of the party, as the foremost craned his neck to peer upon the campus.
"One who is able to take care of himself," was the response. "No less a personage than his Royal Highness."