n the annals of Stanford
theatricals; the show was so inoffensively proper, Connor declared with
a sigh, that it was disgusting. No hitch or jar marred the perfect
running of the performance, and the conductor, directing the
scene-shifting between acts, stopped now and then to shake hands with
himself. The borrowed scenery almost fitted; there was no wait of more
than half an hour; very few of the chorus got out of tune; the costumes
had been expunged by a board of lady managers and declared officially to
have no _Said Pasha_ tendencies; the leading ladies were actually
keeping their tempers; things moved on as smoothly as though the Fates
were deadening suspicion in order to make the coming catastrophe the
more overwhelming.

The third act drew on. The low comedian had just finished joshing back
and forth with the bleachers, whose chorus work had equalled, in some
respects, that on the stage. A soft light began to illumine the painted
heavens, and a three-hundred-candle-power Luna, the pride and joy of
Connor's heart, rose in wavering majesty. The house was quiet now,
listening to Smith's solo to Lillian in the moonlit garden. The music
swept softly on to the close of the song. As Jack took a deep breath for
his tender love-note, the note that was to make men sigh and women
quiver, Lillian leaned closer to him, as if drawn by the caressing
sweetness in his voice, and one round, white arm stole about his neck in
the prettiest gesture imaginable. No one knew that with the other hand
she had quickly drawn out the big black pin that held the flowers on her
breast. One wicked jab, and the precious high note broke in a wild
"ouch" of pain.

The bleachers laughed uproariously.

ONE COMMENCEMENT.

One Commencement.[A]

"Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave;
Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame;
Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave."

BRET HARTE.

There is one Wednesday morning, the last in May, when the sun, peeping
over the observatory dome on Mount Hamilton and flooding the wide valley
of Santa Clara, wakes unfeelingly a reluctant set of mortals to the
realization that this is the last of their mornings.

The girl in Roble who has lived four happy, independent years where the
winds of freedom blow, and who is going back this afternoon to the
household duties and narrow sympathies of a not over-interesting home,
leans