line up before the Union at the orders of the class marshal.
Finally, the procession, the grand marshal, a pro¬ cessor, in the lead with a wand in his hand, then President Culver and the governor of the State, Fen the men who were to receive honorary de¬ grees—a writer, a college president, a philanthro¬ pist, a professor, and three politicians—then the [faculty in academic robes, their many-colored hoods [brilliant against their black gov/ns. And last the seniors, a long line of them marching in twos headed by their marshal.
The visitors streamed after them into the chapel. The seniors sat in their customary seats, the faculty and the men who were to receive honorary degrees on a platform that had been built at the altar. After they were seated, everything became a blur to Hugh. He hardly knew what was happening. He saw his father and mother sitting in the tran¬ sept. He thought his mother was crying. He hoped not. . . . Some one prayed stupidly. There was a hymn. . . . What was it Cynthia had said? Oh, yes: “I can’t marry a stranger.” Well, they were n’t exactly strangers. . . . He was darn glad he had gone to New York. . . . The president seemed to be saying over and over again, “By the power invested in me . . .” and every time that he said it, Professor Blake would slip the loop of a
