The summer sun, streaming intimately in at the window of her room, and
touching her hair with warm, awakening fingers, caused Grace to open her
eyes before six o'clock the next morning. She lay looking about her,
unable for the moment to remember where she was. Then she laughed and
reaching for her kimono, which hung folded across the footboard of the
bed, slipped it on, and, thrusting her feet into her bedroom slippers,
went to the window.

"Dear old Overton Hall," she murmured, her eyes fixed lovingly on the
stately gray tower of the building that she had come to regard as a close
friend. Again she found herself overwhelmed by a tide of reminiscences.
How many times she and Anne had stood at the self-same window, arm in arm,
gazing out at the self-same sights. She could see the very seat at the
foot of the big tree where she had sat the day Emma Dean had poked her
head about the big syringa bush and mournfully handed her the letter from
Ruth Denton's father which had been buried in the pocket of Emma's coat
for so many weeks. She smiled as she recalled the ludicrously penitent
expression with which Emma had delivered the letter. There were the
library steps on which Arline Thayer had sat and cried so disconsolately
because she could not go home for Christmas. Once more she saw a strange
procession winding its way across the campus headed by a walking,
chattering scarecrow, Emma Dean again in her famous representation of
"Never Too Late to Mend," which had been one of the great features of the
Famous Fiction dance.

Then she saw four girls, with their shining heads bared to the sun,
strolling across the campus, talking earnestly of what the future held for
them. And still again she saw them in caps and gowns marching toward the