drowsed upon the seats; now and then a black waiter, brilliant as a
bobolink in his white jacket and apron, appeared on some errand; the
large, mild Cambridge policemen kept the entrances to the yard with a
benevolent vigilance which was not harsh with the little Irish children
coming up from the Marsh in their best to enjoy the sight of other
people's pleasure.

"Isn't it a perfect Class Day?" cried young Mavering, as he crossed
Kirkland Street with Miss Pasmer, and glanced down its vaulted
perspective of elms, through which the sunlight broke, and lay in the
road in pools and washes as far as the eye reached. "Did you ever see
anything bluer than the sky to-day? I feel as if we'd ordered the
weather, with the rest of the things, and I had some credit for it as
host. Do make it a little compliment, Miss Pasmer; I assure you I'll be
very modest about it."

"Ah, I think it's fully up to the occasion," said the girl, catching the
spirit of his amiable satisfaction. "Is it the usual Class Day weather?"

"You spoil everything by asking that," cried the young man; "it obliges
me to make a confession--it's always good weather on Class Day. There
haven't been more than a dozen bad Class Days in the century. But you'll
admit that there can't have been a better Class Day than this?"

"Oh yes; it's certainly the pleasantest Class Day I've seen;" said the
girl; and now when Mavering laughed she laughed too.

"Thank you so much for saying that! I hope it will pass off in unclouded
brilliancy; it will, if I can make it. Why, hallo! They're on the other
side of the street yet, and looking about as if they were lost."