Long before the remainder of the class had even thought of subjects, in the secret conclaves of her family, Mahala’s subject had been decided upon, outlined, and developed. Many things she had wanted to say had been ruled out for reasons paramount in the minds of Elizabeth and Mahlon. Once or twice a week, she had been put through her paces either by her father or her mother, occasionally before both. The thing had become so habitual with Mahala that she recited her valedictory every night before she went to sleep and snatches of it were in her mind many times during the day. In all this intensive study, she had dwelt upon pronunciations, upon phrasing, and inflection until she really had an extremely praiseworthy offering at the tip of her tongue, one which either Elizabeth or Mahlon could have delivered equally as well. All her life she had been making her bow and speaking her piece at mite societies and tea meetings, at Sunday School festivals, last days of school, and Grand Army celebrations. To Mahala, Commencement night was not a thing of cold shivers, shaking knees, and throbbing heart. She had been trained from birth and was an adept at public appearances. She could recall no occasion in her life when she had come in contact with any of the other boys and girls in public in which she had not easily made the most attractive figure and carried off the honours. At the noon hour, her father had said to her: “I’m going to stop at the Newberry House and tell the busman he needn’t come for you to-night. I don’t propose that you shall risk soiling your shoes and your dress by climbing into that dirty omnibus, even though there is a supposition that it is to be cleaned after the last load of drummers is taken to the train.” Mahala hesitated a second, then she looked at her father with speculative eyes. “Don’t you think, Papa,” she said, “that it would be better for me to go with the others?” There were nerve strain and asperity in Elizabeth Spellman’s voice that Mahala recognized. She gave Mahlon no chance. “Mahala,” she said, “when Papa tells you that he’s going to do a thing that he has studied out and has decided will be the best thing for you, the proper answer for you to make is: ‘Yes, Papa. Thank you very much for your loving consideration.’” “I was only thinking,” said Mahala, “that the other boys and girls might resent it; that it might make them feel that they were unfortunate not to have a father who had made such a success of life that he could do for them the lovely things that Papa daily does for me.”