he present; some copying for me, and translating,
for this unfortunate is a scholar, you know."

"Very good; then let it rest. Granted the poor devils have a bad time of
it, you're not bound to sacrifice yourself for them. If you go on at
this pace, you'll bring up with the long-haired, bloomer reformers, and
then--God help you. No, you needn't say another word,--I sha'n't
listen,--not one; so. Here we are! school yonder,--well situated?"

"Capitally."

"Fine day."

"Very."

"Clara will be charmed to see you."

"You flatter me. I hope so."

"There, now you talk rationally. Don't relapse. We will go up and hear
the pretty creatures read their little pieces, and sing their little
songs, and see them take their nice blue-ribboned diplomas, and fall in
love with their dear little faces, and flirt a bit this evening, and
to-morrow I shall take Ma'm'selle Clara home to Mamma Russell, and you
may go your ways."

"The programme is satisfactory."

"Good. Come on then."

All Commencement days, at college or young ladies' school, if not twin
brothers and sisters, are at least first cousins, with a strong family
likeness. Who that has passed through one, or witnessed one, needs any
description thereof to furbish up its memories. This of Professor Hale's
belonged to the great tribe, and its form and features were of the old
established type. The young ladies were charming; plenty of white gowns,
plenty of flowers, plenty of smiles, blushes, tremors, hopes, and fears;
little songs, little pieces, little addresses, to be sung, to be played,
to be read, just as Tom Russell had foreshadowed, and proving to be--

"Just the least of a bore!" as he added after listening awhile; "don't
you think so, Surrey?"

"Hush! don't talk."

Tom stared; then followed his cousin's eye, fixed immovably upon one
little spot on the platform. "By Jove!" he cried, "what a beauty! As
Father Dryden would say, 'this is the porcelain clay of humankind.' No
wonder you look. Who is she,--do you know?"

"No."

"No! short, clear, and decisive. Don't devour her, Will. Remember the
sermon I preached you an hour ago. Come, look at this,"--thrusting a
programme into his face,--"and stop staring. Why, boy, she has
bewitched you,--or inspired you,"--surveying him sharply.

And indeed it would seem so. Eyes, mouth, face, instinct with some
subtle and thrilling emotion. As gay Tom Russell looked, he
involuntarily stretched out his hand, as one would pu