L M Montgomery

Kilmeny of the Orchard L M Montgomery

The sunshine of a day in early spring, honey pale and honey sweet, was showering overthe red brick buildings of Queenslea College and the grounds about them, throwing throughthe bare, budding maples and elms, delicate, evasive etchings of gold and brown on thepaths, and coaxing into life the daffodils that were peering greenly and perkily up under thewindows of the co-eds' dressing-room. A young April wind, as fresh and sweet as if it had been blowing over the fields ofmemory instead of through dingy streets, was purring in the tree-tops and whipping theloose tendrils of the ivy network which covered the front of the main building. It was awind that sang of many things, but what it sang to each listener was only what was in thatlistener's heart. To the college students who had just been capped and diplomad by "OldCharlie," the grave president of Queenslea, in the presence of an admiring throng of parentsand sisters, sweethearts and friends, it sang, perchance, of glad hope and shining successand high achievement. It sang of the dreams of youth that may never be quite fulfilled, butare well worth the dreaming for all that. God help the man who has never known suchdreams-who, as he leaves his alma mater, is not already rich in aerial castles, theproprietor of many a spacious estate in Spain. He has missed his birthright. The crowd streamed out of the entrance hall and scattered over the campus, fraying offinto the many streets beyond. Eric Marshall and David Baker walked away together. Theformer had graduated in Arts that day at the head of his class; the latter had come to see thegraduation, nearly bursting with pride in Eric's success. Between these two was an old and tried and enduring friendship, although David was tenyears older than Eric, as the mere tale of years goes, and a hundred years older inknowledge of the struggles and difficulties of life which age a man far more quickly andeffectually than the passing of time.