cisely like all others that have
been since the world began. One always fears that the platform may sink
under the weight of youthful platitudes uttered on such occasions; yet
one can never be properly critical, because the sight of the boys and
girls themselves, those young and hopeful makers of to-morrow, disarms
one's scorn. We yawn desperately at the essays, but our hearts go out
to the essayists, all the same, for "the vision splendid" is shining in
their eyes, and there is no fear of "th' inevitable yoke" that the
years are so surely bringing them.

Rebecca saw Hannah and her husband in the audience; dear old John and
cousin Ann also, and felt a pang at the absence of her mother, though
she had known there was no possibility of seeing her; for poor Aurelia
was kept at Sunnybrook by cares of children and farm, and lack of money
either for the journey or for suitable dress. The Cobbs she saw too. No
one, indeed, could fail to see uncle Jerry; for he shed tears more than
once, and in the intervals between the essays descanted to his
neighbors concerning the marvelous gifts of one of the graduating class
whom he had known ever since she was a child; in fact, had driven her
from Maplewood to Riverboro when she left her home, and he had told
mother that same night that there wan't nary rung on the ladder o' fame
that that child wouldn't mount before she got through with it.

The Cobbs, then, had come, and there were other Riverboro faces, but
where was aunt Jane, in her black silk made over especially for this
occasion? Aunt Miranda had not intended to come, she knew, but where,
on this day of days, was her beloved aunt Jane? However, this thought,
like all others, came and went in a flash, for the whole morning was
like a series of magic lantern pictures, crossing and recrossing her
field of vision. She played, she sang, she recited Queen Mary's Latin
prayer, like one in a dream, only brought to consciousness by meeting
Mr. Aladdin's eyes as she spoke the last line. Then at the end of the
programme came her class poem, Makers of To-morrow; and there, as on
many a former occasion, her personality played so great a part that she
seemed to be uttering Miltonic sentiments instead of school-girl verse.
Her voice, her eyes, her body breathed conviction, earnestness,
emotion; and when she left the platform the audience felt that they had
listened to a masterpiece. Most of her hearers knew little of Carlyle
or Emerson, or the