Miss Ashton's New Pupil Part 30

There was nothing of peculiar interest in the exercises that followed.

Commencements all over the country are much the same. The four young ladies who were to read their essays acquitted themselves well.

Gladys, to her father's great delight, with her soft Southern voice, her sparkling face, and her easy, self-possessed, graceful ways, was the undoubted favorite. A storm of applause followed the reading, and bouquets of flowers fell around her in great profusion.

It was the bestowing of the diplomas that attracted the most attention.

There was something touching in the gentle smile of the aged president as, calling each member of the cla.s.s by her name, he spoke a few Latin words and handed her the parchment that made her for life an alumna of Montrose Academy. It was almost as if he had laid his hand on her head in benediction.

The pleasant dinner that followed was the next marked event of the day. To this all the school, and as many invited guests as could be accommodated, sat down, and the large hall was full of the cheerful voices of those who had come to congratulate and those who were congratulated. Nothing could have made a more fitting ending to the home-life of the busy year; so many kindly, cheering words spoken, so much of hearty encouragement for the coming year.

Pupils and teachers, some of them together for the last time, but hardly among them an exception to the tender affection which bound them together.

Susan Downer had been graduated. She held her diploma in her hand as she went off the stage with the others, but she was far from happy.

"Miss Ashton is glad to have me go," she thought. "She neither respects nor loves me."

No one noticed her dejection. Amidst the general happiness she seemed to herself forgotten, almost shunned. "And I had hoped," she thought, "to make this such a triumphal day!"

It would be idle to waste any sympathy on Susan. There is an old adage, "As you make your bed, so must you lie in it." She had done a dishonorable, untrue thing, and had repented only over its consequences.

It is very sad but true, that what we have once done, or left undone, said, or not said, can never be recalled. No repentance can efface its memory; no tears can blot it out; and only one, the great, kind Father, can forgive.

Susan to the last day of her life will have that act clinging to her.

She can never forget it.

The moral is obvious, needing no words to make it plainer.

Immediately after dinner the school broke up and the departures began.

The farewells that were spoken, the tears that were shed, the oft-repeated kisses that were given, it would be difficult to tell.

By twilight the large building began to have a desolated look. Miss Ashton, pale and tired, stood bravely in a doorway, kissed and wiped away tears, and silently blessed pupil after pupil in rapid succession.

The Rock Cove party considerately made their farewells brief, and taking Marion with them hurried to the evening train that was to carry them home. Then down over the building settled the beautiful June twilight, and the year of study was over.