Kent bowed and took his seat.  The quartette sang and somebody prodded Lydia smartly in the back.  She made her way up to the platform and began to speak automatically.

It was a very young and girlish speech.  It was delivered with tremendous sincerity.  Yet it did not matter much what she said, for what counted was that Lydia’s contralto voice was very young and rich, that her golden hair was like a nimbus about her head, that her lips were red and sweet, that her cheeks were vivid and that her eyes were very blue, very innocent and clear.

Amos with tight clenched fists and Lizzie with her lips a thin seam of nervous compression, were swelled with vanity and torn with fear lest she forget her lines.

But John Levine, who had dashed in late and stood unnoticed in the crowd under the gallery listened intently, while he yearned over Lydia’s immature beauty like a mother.

“And so,” she ended, “when we say good-by, you all must remember that we go out into the world resolved to live up to our motto.  That we believe with our forefathers that governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed.  That all men are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, among which are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  And that because the New England people in the Middle West are far from the cradle of liberty where these ideas were born, living among foreigners it behooves the members of our class to carry our motto into their daily life.  Love of country leads us and so farewell!”

It was a foolish, sentimental little speech with one or two real thoughts in it and John Levine smiled even while the tears filled his eyes.  He told himself that no one, least of all probably Lydia herself, realized the cynical application of the class motto to Lake City conditions.

The diplomas were distributed.  The great morning was over.  After the congratulations and the handshaking, Lydia found herself with her father, Lizzie, Levine and Ma Norton on the way to the trolley.  Lydia walked between her father and John.

“You’ll come out to dinner, Mr. Levine,” asked Lydia.

“No, ma’am,” replied the Congressman.  “I return to Washington on the 12:30 train, which gives me just time to see you to the trolley.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Amos.

“We vote on the Levine bill, the morning I get back to Washington.  I just ran out to see young Lydia graduate.”

Amos groaned, “John, you’re a fool!”

Levine laughed.  “Lydia, am I a fool?” He looked down at the flushed face above the dainty organdy.

“No,” she answered, giving him a swift look.  “You’re a goose and a lamb.”

“So!  You see you don’t understand me, Amos,” said John, triumphantly as he helped Lydia aboard the street-car.  “Good-by, young Lydia.  I’ll be home in a week or so.”

And so the great event ended.  After dinner Amos rushed back to the factory, Lydia hung the graduation gown away in her closet and she and Adam spent the afternoon on the lake shore, where the delicate splendor and perfume of June endeavored in vain to prove to Lydia that the Senior Ball was of no consequence.