ding school.

After the senior stunts, when Judy had succeeded in throwing the Major
into another apoplectic fit of laughing by playing "Birdie's Dead" on
the piano, it was time to go back to Fern Woods where they were to meet
the wagons. While the girls were pinning on their hats the Major, in a
voice husky from much laughing, asked Nance, as it happened to be, which
girl had suggested the wreath he had seen at the foot of the oak tree.
Nance pointed out Molly and the Major presently beckoned her to follow
him into his library. Unlocking one of the desk drawers, he drew out a
faded photograph. The picture showed a laughing, handsome boy not more
than eighteen. His curly hair was ruffled all over his head as if he had
just come in out of the wind, and his merry eyes looked straight into
Molly's.

"That is Charlie," said the Major, looking over Molly's shoulder at the
picture. "My younger brother, Charlie. His death was the greatest sorrow
I have ever known. Poor Charlie! Poor boy!"

The old man turned away to hide the tears in his eyes and Molly laid the
photograph back in the drawer.

"Charlie would have enjoyed all this even more than I have," went on the
Major. "It would have been just what he would have done under the
circumstances. I saw the wreath, you see, and it touched me very
deeply."

"The girls will appreciate your kindness all the more when I tell them,"
said Molly, not knowing how else to express the sympathy she felt.

"Ah, well, it all happened half a century ago," he said, shaking her
hand and patting it gently at the same time.

"He is a dear," thought Molly, following him into the hall.

She saw one other photograph in the Fern house that interested her. It
was a picture of Professor Edwin Green, very elaborately framed,
standing on a dressing table in one of the bedrooms.

Alice Fern kept well in the background while her mother and father and
elder sister entertained the senior class of Wellington. She had done
her duty by the lunch and she was not going to mingle in this crowd of
unknowns.

"I never could bear a college romp," she had said to her mother who had
remonstrated with her daughter.

"I trust you don't call your mother a college romp," answered the old
lady indignantly.

"Not at all, Mama. You belonged to the early days of Wellington before
romps came into existence," Alice replied sharply.

"I'm sure you may have to see a great deal of college, if----" began
Mrs. Fern, an