o go
out to Smugglers' Notch for luncheon, with Mrs. Adams, who had never
been in an auto before, for chaperon and himself, Will, and Jim Watson
as escorts and chauffeurs.

By the time they got back the campus was festooned with Japanese
lanterns, little tables ready for bowls of lemonade stood under all the
biggest trees, and a tarpaulin dotted with camp chairs covered a
roped-off enclosure near the back steps of College Hall.

"You've got tickets, father," Betty explained, "so you can sit down in
there and listen to the music. Will, you're to call for me."

"For Miss Ayres," Will amended calmly. "Watson is going to take you."

Judge and Mrs. Watson had seats too, so Eleanor and Mr. Blake, Betty and
Jim, and Madeline and Will wandered off together, two and two, enjoying
snatches of the concert, exploring the campus, and engaging in a most
exciting "Tournament"--Madeline's idea of course--to see who could drink
the most lemonade. Will was ahead, with Madeline a close second, when a
mysterious whistle sounded from the second floor of the Hilton.

"Oh, good-bye, Dick," said Madeline briskly, holding out her hand. "It's
time for you to go. Shall I see you to-morrow or not till I get to New
York?"

"Have we really got to go so soon?" asked Will sadly.

Betty nodded. "Or at least we've got to go and put on old dresses, so as
to be ready to join in our class march."

"Why can't we march too?" demanded Mr. Blake.

"Because you're not Harding, 19--," said Madeline with finality.

And so, half an hour later, another procession assembled on the spot
where the Ivy Day march had started that morning. But this time 19-- was
wearing its oldest clothes and heaviest shoes and didn't care whether it
rained or not. Four and five abreast they marched, round the campus, up
Main Street and back, round and round the campus again. "Just as if we
hadn't torn around all day until we're ready to drop," Eleanor Watson
said laughingly. It is a perfectly senseless performance, this "class
march," which is perhaps the reason why every class revels in it.

But the procession was moving more slowly and singing with rather less
enthusiasm, when a small A.D.T. approached the leaders. "Is Miss Marie
Howard in this bunch?" he demanded. "She orter be at the Burton, but
she ain't."

"Yes, here I am," called Marie quickly, and the small boy lit a
sputtering match, so that she could sign his book and read her telegram.
It was from Christy: "Awfu