Almost at once mother was there, rubbing her feet with towels,
hustling her into bed.
"Now, you must keep covered up a while," she said.
Missy was too happily listless to object. But, from under the hot
blankets, she murmured:
"You can read the Valedictory if you want to. It's all done."
Commencement night arrived. Twenty-odd young, pulsing entities were
lifting and lilting to a brand-new, individual experience, each one
of them, doubtless, as firmly convinced as the class Valedictorian
that he--or she--was the unique centre round which buzzed this
rushing, bewitchingly upsetting occasion.
Yet everyone had to admit that the Valedictorian made a tremendous
impression: a slender girl in white standing alone on a lighted
stage--only one person in all that assemblage was conscious that it
was the identical spot where once stood the renowned Dobson--gazing
with luminous eyes out on the darkened auditorium. It was crowded
out there but intensely quiet, for all the people were listening to
the girl up there illumined: the lift and fall of her voice, the
sentiments fine, noble, and inspiring.
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