ion has come."

Through their talk Jerry had sat very still. To her the Class-day
exercises of the school had opened a great well of sentiment. All
through her life, she thought, she would strive to repay by worthiness
the great debt of inspiration she owed to the school. She had not
thought of it in just that grand way until she had heard Sheila Quinn,
until Dana King had given the class prophecy, until Ginny had read the
school poem, until Peggy Lee had presented the class gift to the school.
A young alumna of the preceding class had welcomed the proud graduates.
Dr. Caton had presented the Lincoln Award--to Dana King. A murmur had
swept the room when he announced that, through a mistake in the records,
the Award went to Dana King instead of either Miss Cox or Miss Travis.
Jerry sat next to Ginny and, as Dr. Caton spoke, she squeezed Ginny's
hand in a way that said plainly, "If I had it all to do over again I'd
do the same thing!" Afterward Dana King had shaken her hand warmly and
had declared that he "couldn't understand such good fortune and it meant
a lot to him--for it made college possible."

It seemed to Jerry as though they were all standing on a great shining
hill from which paths diverged--attractive paths that beckoned; that
precious word college--Isobel, Dana King, Peggy Lee were going along
that path; Sheila Quinn was going to study to be a nurse. Amy Mather's
had chosen a more flowery way. Would her happiness be more lasting than
the pretty flowers that lured her? Jerry's own path was a steep, narrow,
little path, and led straight away from Highacres--but it led to
Sunnyside! So with the little ache that gripped her when she thought
that she must very soon leave Highacres forever, was a great joy that in
a few days now she would see her precious Sweetheart--and Gyp and Isobel
would be with her.

The whole family was in a flutter over the Commencement. Graham's class
was to usher; the undergraduates were to march in by classes, the girls
in white, carrying sweet-peas, the boys wearing white posies in the
lapels of their coats.

Mrs. Westley inspected her young people with shining eyes.

"You look like the most beautiful flowers that ever grew," she cried in
the choky way that mothers have at such moments. "I wish I could hug you
all--but it would muss you dreadfully."

"Thank goodness, mammy, that you don't find any _dirt_ on me," exclaimed
Graham, whose ruddy face shone from an extra "party" scrubbi