Ingram and
Gertrude must be engaged! What a handsome pair they will make." George
offered his arm to Gertrude, and they walked about the campus under the
classical trees that glowed with hundreds of colored paper lanterns;
everywhere a throng of pretty happy girls with their relatives and
friends. Music by the glee clubs on the college steps, and refreshments,
closed pleasantly Gertrude's last night of college life on the beautiful
Connecticut.
She went to bed tired, but very happy. That evening her mother and sister
had left for New York, and in the morning she and George were to spend
the day at Mt. Holyoke. Twice in the night, Gertrude awoke, looked at her
watch, and longed for daylight, and then went back to dream of flowers
and music.
While she slept, warm southern breezes spread a coverlet of silver gray
mist over the homes of energy and thrift up and down the Connecticut
Valley. In the morning when Gertrude opened the blinds, and saw the fog
against the window panes and over the valley, she exclaimed, "It is too
bad, I so wanted George to drive to Mt. Holyoke to-day, and see nature at
her best! I hoped this would be the happiest day of my life."
It was a quarter to 8 o'clock when a pair of spirited black roadsters,
hitched to a buckboard, were driven in front of the hotel for George
Ingram.
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