s Mary looked at them her eyes blazed with anger.

To-morrow was her graduation day from the High School. All day she had
been at the class picnic and she had had such a glorious time. They had
danced and played; they had rowed on the lake and sung their school songs
in the moonlight. She had been as happy as a girl could be, and to have it
spoiled in this way was cruel.

Why should her mother give her a string of old beads for a graduation
present? Other girls had wrist watches and pretty dresses and checks and
all sorts of beautiful things. When they asked her what her mother's gift
had been, how could she say, "A string of old beads"? Mother would expect
her to wear them at her graduation and how could she?

She had found them on her table when she had come into her room and with
them was a note saying:

"Dear Mary:

"I waited for you to come home so that I could give you my gift, but
it is so late and I am too tired to wait longer, so I will leave them
for you. I could not buy you a real gift, so I have given you the
dearest thing I have. Every bead has a story which some day I will
tell you--perhaps on the day that you graduate from college, but not
now. I hope you will love them as I do. I shall see them to-morrow
on your pretty new dress. Good night, girlie. I hope you had a good
time.

"MOTHER."

Why was mother so queer? All her life long it had been hard for Mary to
have her mother so different. Her mother worked for Mr. Morse and so she
could never bring her friends to their rooms lest she should annoy the
Morses. Other girls' mothers had pretty faces and her mother's face was
all red and cross-looking. Other girls' mothers had pretty hair, but her
mother had straight hair and little of it. She had tried to get her to
wear false hair, but instead of doing it her mother had gone to her room
and cried because Mary had suggested it. Other girls' mothers let them
wear pretty clothes, but hers were always plain, though they were always
very neat. Most of the girls had fancy graduation dresses, but hers was
only a little dimity that her mother had made--and now these dreadful
beads were more than she could stand and she threw them on the bed in
anger. She wished she had a real mother of whom she could be proud.

As she started to take down her long, wavy hair, she saw a letter in Mr.
Morse's handwriting on her desk. Perhaps this was