The Valedictory! When Missy sat in the classroom, exhausted with the lassitudinous warmth of spring and with the painful uncertainty of whether she'd be called to translate the Vergil passage she hadn't mastered, visions of that coming glory would rise to brighten weary hours; and the last thing at night, in falling asleep, as the moon stole in tenderly to touch her smiling face, she took them to her dreams. She saw a slender girl in white, standing alone on a lighted stage, gazing with luminous eyes out on a darkened auditorium. Sometimes they had poky old lectures in that Opera House. Somebody named Ridgely Holman Dobson was billed to lecture there now--before Commencement; but Missy hated lectures; her vision was of something lifted far above such dismal, useful communications. She saw a house as hushed as when little Eva dies--all the people listening to the girl up there illumined: the lift and fall of her voice, the sentiments fine and noble and inspiring. They followed the slow grace of her arms and hands--it was, indeed, as if she held them in the hollow of her hand. And then, finally, when she had come to the last undulating cadence, the last vibrantly sustained phrase, as she paused and bowed, there was a moment of hush--and then the applause began. Oh, what applause! And then, slowly, graciously, modestly but with a certain queenly pride, the shining figure in white turned and left the stage. She could see it all: the way her “waved” hair would fluff out and catch the light like a kind of halo, and each one of the nine organdie ruffles that were going to trim the bottom of her dress; she could even see the glossy, dark green background of potted palms--mother had promised to lend her two biggest ones. Yes, she could see it and hear it to the utmost completeness--save for one slight detail: that was the words of the girlish and queenly speaker. It seemed all wrong that she, who wasn't going to be a dull lecturer, should have to use words, and so many of them! You see, Missy hadn't yet written the Valedictory. But that didn't spoil her enjoyment of the vision; it would all come to her in time. Missy believed in Inspiration. Mother did not. Mother had worried all through the four years of her daughter's high school career--over “grades” or “exams” or “themes” or whatnot. She had fretted and urged and made Missy get up early to study; had even punished her. And, now, she was sure Missy would let time slide by and never get the Valedictory written on time. The two had already “had words” over it. Mother was dear and tender and sweet, and Missy would rather have her for mother than any other woman in Cherryvale, but now and then she was to be feared somewhat. Sometimes she would utter an ugly, upsetting phrase: “How can you dilly-dally so, Missy? You put everything off!--put off--put off! Now, go and try to get that thesis started!”