The four addresses, delivered by as many graduates, were of a high order—­vivacious, brilliant, and one or two of them quite exhilarating and fine.  Yet there was prevalent something like the feeling of a funeral occasion—­a feeling which follows the loss of a friend.  But no one was dead.  Even the applause at the end of any well-given number was gentle and subdued.  The president and Professor McLaren presented the diplomas.  After the graduating classes were again seated the president arose to deliver his annual address.

This was Bishop Albertson’s thirtieth time during his presidential career.  How changed since he delivered the first address to seventeen students, and with only three professors by his side!  Now four hundred and sixty students in his audience; sixteen professors sat by his side and he had just delivered forty-nine diplomas to as many graduates.  Usually the annual address was mainly to the graduates.  This address took a wider scope.  It was intended and did touch everyone who had an interest in this great institution.  It was full of affectionate counsel and expressions of honest gratitude.  The atmosphere which had been unconsciously affecting the people throughout the program was beginning to be analyzed.  Farewell words were of course expected at this time; such were customary at such a time.  But these were no common words.  There was more than a common “Good-by” in them.  This president had spoken similar words twenty-nine times, but never just such words.  His eyes were growing misty when at the end he said:  “My dear friends, this is not simply a ‘Good-by’ that I speak, but a sincere, heartfelt ‘Farewell.’” A few minutes later seven hundred persons stood with eyes suffused with tears, and with bowed heads to receive the apostolic benediction.

Next day at ten o’clock the joint board met in the board room, in its annual meeting.  The attendance was large—­trustees, faculty, and visiting brethren.  The word had gone out that important changes would likely take place, but none knew just what they would be.

J. M. Quintin, chairman of the board, presided.  Reports from each officer were made.  The secretary of the board read his report; it was a model of perspicuity and encouragement.  Each member of the faculty presented an account of his work.  A glowing report was made by Quintin of Sparrow’s work on the farm, and a resolution of appreciation was sent to the farmer.  Indeed, the board had never received such reports of the prosperous condition of the Monastery.  Then came the president’s annual report.  This was his thirtieth annual report; nor was it very different from the twenty-nine that had preceded it.  It was permeated with hopefulness for the future and gratitude for the past.  Then came that which seemed to be the great burden of his heart.  This was to be his last official message.  He said, in substance, that the wise man’s description of old age was fast coming into his experience.