At the hotel where they halted for the night, there were more wonders.  Aunt Alvirah’s knowledge of modern conveniences was from reading only.  She had never before been nearer to a telephone than to look up at the wires that were strung from post to post before the Red Mill.  Modern plumbing, an elevator, heating by steam, and many other improvements, were like a sealed book to her.

She disliked to be waited upon and whispered to Mrs. Murchiston: 

“That air black man a-standin’ behind my chair at dinner sort o’ makes me narvous.  I’m expectin’ of him to grab my plate away before I’m done eatin’.”

The day set for the graduation exercises at Briarwood Hall was as lovely a June day as was ever seen.  The Cameron automobile rolled into the grounds and was parked with several dozen machines, just as the girls were marching into chapel.  The fresh young voices chanting “One Wide River to Cross” floated across to the ears of the party from the Red Mill, and Aunt Alvirah began to hum the song in her cracked, sweet treble.

The automobile party followed the smaller girls along the wide walk of the campus.  There was the new West Dormitory, quite completed on the outside, and sufficiently so inside for the seniors to occupy rooms.  Not the old quartettes and duos of times past; but very beautiful rooms nevertheless, in which they could later entertain their friends who had come to the graduation exercises.

The organist began to play softly on the great organ in the chapel, and played until every girl was seated—­the graduating class upon the platform.  Then the school orchestra played and Helen—­very pretty in white with cherry ribbons—­stood forth with her violin and played a solo.

Mrs. Tellingham welcomed the visitors in a short speech.  Then there was a little silence before the strains of an old, old song quivered through the big chapel.  Helen was playing again, with the soft tones of the organ as a background.  And, in a moment Ruth stood up, stepped forward, and began to sing.

The Cheslow party had all heard her before.  She was almost always singing about the old Red Mill when she was at home.  But into this ballad she seemed to put more feeling than ever before.  The tears ran down Aunt Alvirah’s withered cheeks.  Ruth did not know the dear old woman was present, for it was to be a surprise to her; but she might have been singing just for Aunt Alvirah alone.

“This pays me for coming, Miz’ Murchiston, if nothin’ else would,” whispered Aunt Alvirah.  “I can see my pretty often and often, I hope.  But I’ll never hear her sing again like this.”

The exercises went smoothly.  A learned man made a helpful speech.  Then, while there was more music, a curtain fell between the graduating class and the audience.

When it rose again the girls were grouped about a light throne, trimmed with flowers, on which sat the girl who had proved herself to be the best scholar of them all—­the lame girl, Mercy Curtis.  She was flushed, she was excited and, if never before, Mercy Curtis looked actually pretty.