r her son's feelings which struck him at
times as exaggerated. He thought of the delightful secret back in his
own mind; there was no reason for talking any more about the rod until
he bought it; he would manage to replace the dollar abstracted from the
reserve fund.

If he gave absent answers during the meal Clytie seemed to be
preoccupied also. Little Mary, who sat by him, tucked her hand into his
as she prattled.

"Now, George!" said his mother at last suddenly when the rice pudding
had been finished. George rose, clean and red-cheeked, looking more than
ever like a large edition of Baby, in spite of his jacket and
knickerbockers, as he stepped over to his father with a new dignity and
handed him a folded sheet of paper.

"What's this?" asked Langshaw genially opening it. He read aloud the
words within, written laboriously in a round, boyish hand:

To George Brander Langshaw, from father.
You Oh me five dolars.

Reseived paiment.

"Hello! Hello! What does this mean?" asked Langshaw slowly, with an
unpleasant startled sensation that any such sum in connection with
George was out of all reason.

"It means a bill for you from me!" announced George. His cheeks grew
redder, his blue eyes looked squarely at his father. "It's for this!" He
pulled from his pocket a school report card divided into tiny ruled
squares, filled with figures for half its length, and flung it down
proudly on the table before his parent.

"It's the Deportment--since September. You said when Miss Skinner sent
that last note home about me that if I could get a hundred in Deportment
for every month up to Christmas you'd be willing to pay me five dollars.
You can see there for yourself, father, the three one hundreds--no, not
that line--that's only fifty-five for spelling; nobody ever knows their
spelling! Here is the place to look--in the Deportment column. I've
tried awful hard to be good, father, to surprise you."

"The way that child has tried!" burst forth Clytie, her dark eyes
drowned in sparkles. "And they're so unfair at school--giving you a mark
if you squeak your chair, or speak, or look at anybody; as if any child
could be expected to sit like a stone all the time! I'm sure I love to
hear children laughing--and you know yourself how hard it is for George
to be quiet! We had a little talk about it together, he and I; and now
you see! It's been such work keeping his card from you each month when