Marjorie Dean, Post-Graduate

President Matthew’s earnest ringing address pleased Miss Susanna most of all. She made mental note that there was nothing mean-spirited about “that man, Matthews.” Then the workmen, under Peter Graham’s direction, came forward to place the stone and the girls and Miss Susanna dropped their envelopes into the hollowed opening. Professor Wenderblatt placed an old German writing, religious in character, with the other envelopes. The rest of the men dropped in gold and silver pieces.

As the huge block of stone was settled in the earthy pocket made for it the company joined hands and sang a verse of “Auld Lang Syne.” Miss Susanna, tears running down her cheeks, shook hands with Peter Graham and then with Jonas. They represented her only friends for many years.

“I am going to tell you all,” she said, wiping her eyes and then her glasses, “that this dear child here is responsible for anything I’ve lately done that Uncle Brooke would have wished done.” She drew Marjorie, who stood beside her, into the curve of her arm. “I cannot carry out his wishes in the way I had once planned for the college. I am sorry. I never used to be sorry. I have grown graciousness, it would seem.” She looked defiantly toward President Matthews.

“Hamilton College is grateful to you already for many favors,” the president returned with a gentle courtesy that caused two bright color signals to flash into Miss Susanna’s cheeks.

“I’ve thought something out,” Marjorie remarked suddenly to Ronny when, a little later, the party of Travelers went their way toward the campus. “It’s about Miss Susanna. I used to think, when first I knew her, that it would be splendid if she’d give the college material for Brooke Hamilton’s biography, even if she didn’t wish to give it. Now I know the gift without the giver would be bare. Nothing she might give the college that had been Mr. Brooke’s would be worth anything without her approval.”

“She will soften some day. Remember what I say,” Ronny predicted. “Look how much she has done already for the college, through us, since we have known her. Did she tell you what she wrote and put in her envelope?”

“No, I forgot to ask her. What was it?”

“She wouldn’t tell me. She said it would break the spell if she told and what she had wished might not come true. Of course she was joking, but she kept what she wrote a secret.”

“We never thought on the night we came to Hamilton, lonely freshies, and went out hungrily to hunt dinner that we’d be building a dormitory not far from where we ate our first meal,” Marjorie said musingly.

“What a stormy time we had that year! Now we may enjoy the peaceful pleasure of the P. G.,” Ronny was lightly mocking.

Marjorie smiled to herself. Into her mind had come remembrance of the two disturbing letters she had lately received. Jerry’s efforts to discover the author of the one had been fruitless. Marjorie had proudly ignored the writer of the other. Such letters did not argue well for the “peaceful pleasures of the P. G.”

“Your days of peaceful P. G. pleasure are over, Veronica Browning Lynne. You may manage the first show we shall give.”

“‘Let us then be up and doing, with a heart for any fate,’” Ronny quoted, striking an attitude.

“Something like that.” Marjorie caught Ronny’s upraised arm and drew it under her own. Ronny had brought to mind the inspiring old poem she had so greatly loved and clung to in her grammar school days. Now as ever her soul answered the call of it.

How she made it her watchword through the rest of the college year amid many perplexities and vexations will be told in: “Marjorie Dean, Marvelous Manager.”