Professor Evans, of the department of history, drove Grandmother and me from No. 241 Beacon Street to the college, where we remained in his rooms for a short while until Grandmother felt rested. Then we walked across the campus, which was bright with the colors seen only in coeducational institutions. Mrs. Howe joined the academic procession just before it entered the hall, and all at once she and I found ourselves on a platform, surrounded by men in caps and gowns, the instructors and those about to receive degrees. Grandmother was the only woman on the platform, and everybody in the audience seemed particularly interested in her. In spite of her great age I recall that there was something quite simple and almost childlike in her expression—absolutely different from the self-consciousness peculiar to most people under similar circumstances. When she rose to receive her degree there was a remarkable hush, such a hush as I have seldom known of with so many people in a large room. The hood was put about her shoulders by the president, Doctor Chapin, and she flushed with pleasure at the burst of applause. At the dinner which followed the exercises she sat with the guests of honor, among whom was Mr. Moody, Secretary of the Navy. When Mrs. Howe arose to speak she took occasion to express the hope that the Secretary might indicate whether or not the government of the United States was going to exert its influence to mitigate the horrors of the Armenian atrocities, for the Turks were then carrying on systematic massacres. Mr. Moody spoke next, and gave a fine oration, but said that circumstances prevented him from indicating the policy of his government at that time. He deprecated, of course, the villainous behavior of the Turks. Grandmother was delighted to receive the degree, and we drove back to Boston with Professor Evans, Grandmother still wearing the hood and holding the sheepskin in her hands. This grandson, Henry Marion Hall, received, a few years later, the degrees of M.A. and Ph.D. from Columbia University. To our great delight, his thesis, “The Idylls of Fishermen,” was warmly praised by the critics. She was as pleased as a young girl to hear that we were “going to give a party” during that last summer. “Flossy shall do my hair!” she gaily exclaimed. “The party” was only a small frolic for the Hall grandchildren and their young friends, with a few elders to play cards with her. No one enjoyed the occasion more than she did. We still continued our duets on the piano, playing airs from “Il Pirata” and other old operas which she loved, as well as Händel’s quaint arias. Her fingers, which never lost their flexibility, played in these last years for her great-grandchildren to dance, as she had played for children and grandchildren.