"You were born to be a Harvard girl, Miss Moore, the crimson becomes

you go perfectly, that great bunch of Jacqueminots is just what you

need to bring out the color in your cheeks," said Arnold Lester, rather

an old beau, and one of Mrs. Endicott's devoted cavaliers.

"Miss Moore is making her roses pale with envy," gallantly answered

Robert Maynard. He had not been able to take his eyes from the girl's

face since he met her.

Anna looked down at her roses and smiled. Her gown and gloves were

black. The great fragrant bunch was the only suggestion of color that

she had worn for over a year. She was still in mourning for her

father, one of the first great financial magnates to go under in the

last Wall Street crash. His failure killed him, and the young daughter

and the invalid wife were left practically unprovided for.

Mrs. Tremont could hardly conceal her annoyance. She had met her young

cousin for the first time the preceding summer and taking a fancy to

her; she exacted a promise from the girl's mother that Anna should pay

her a visit the following autumn. But she reckoned without the girl's

beauty and the havoc it would make with her plans. The discussion as

to the roses outvieing Anna's cheeks in color was abruptly terminated

by a great cheer that rolled simultaneously along both sides of the

field as the two teams entered the lists. Cheer upon cheer went up,

swelled and grew in volume, only to be taken up again and again, till

the sound became one vast echoing roar without apparent end or

beginning.

From the moment the teams appeared, Anna Moore had no eyes or ears for

sights or sounds about her. Every muscle in her lithe young body was

strained to catch a glimpse of one familiar figure. She had little

difficulty in singling him out from the rest. He had stripped off his

sweater and stood with head well down, his great limbs tense, straining

for the word to spring. Anna's breath came quickly, as if she had been

running, the roses that he had sent her heaved with the tumult in her

breast. It seemed to her as if she must cry out with the delight of

seeing him again.

"Look, Grace," said Mrs. Standish Tremont, to the younger of her

nieces, "there is Lennox Sanderson."

"Play!" called the referee, and at the word the Harvard wedge shot

forward and crashed into the onrushing mass of blue-legged bodies. The

mimic war was on, and raged with all the excitement of real battle for

the next three-quarters of an hour; the center was pierced, the flanks

were turned, columns were formed and broken, weak spots were protected,

all the tactics of the science of arms was employed, and yet, neither

side could gain an advantage.




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