Mr. Grigsby ate his supper alone that night, having come home very late. The younger children were in bed, the three elder busy with their lessons, when he entered "the chamber." His wife hardly waited for him to be seated and to light his pipe before plunging into the story of the reports. "Bea's is fustrate, if I do say it--'Lessons very good. Conduct very good.' Dee's was 'Lessons indiffrunt. Conduc' good.' Flea--she says she lost hern on the way home. That's what makes me say what I do say 'bout that child. A-traipsin' 'bout the country 't all hours, an' come to look for the repo't her pa's got to sign an' sen' back to the teacher ter-morrer, 'taint nowhar to be foun'." Flea did not lift her head during the tirade. Her slate was propped up in a slanting position by a book; her round comb had been pushed to the back of her head, and her shock of hair tumbled low upon her forehead. The terrible test sum already covered one side of the slate. At her father's voice the pencil stood still, although she did not look up. "If she says she lost the paper, it is true. My lassie never tells a lie." Flea dashed down the pencil and started up. Her eyes burned like live coals. "Father trusts me! I knew he would. I'll tell you just what was in the old report. It said: 'Lessons good--usually. Conduct----_room for improvement!_' There was a long ugly dash after 'conduct.' Now you know all there is to tell." "Well, I declare!" from Bea, and "Did you ever?" from Mrs. Grigsby, were followed by Dee's drawling comment: "It warn't fair, pa. Mr. Tayloe hates her because she's smarter than him. She's the bes' girl in school." Flea burst into tears, sobbing so hysterically that her father put his arm about her and led her from the room. In five minutes he was back, and glanced over the table. "Where is your sister's slate, Bea?" He took it from her hand, and stood for a moment, running his eyes down the calculation that resembled an irregular staircase, his rugged face relaxing as he marked the erasures and smears telling of a weary fight with the task. He was at the door when Bea's prim pert tone arrested him, "Mr. Tayloe will ask me to-morrow if anybody helped her, pa." "I never knew you to be backward in tale-telling," rejoined her father, and went on his way. Flea was in the dining-room, already half comforted. Her father had listened sympathizingly to the story of her hour's labor over the formidable sum, and encouraged her to persevere by predictions of her final success. He now lighted another candle and established her comfortably on one side of the table. "I will read my newspaper over here," he said, cheerily. "Nobody shall disturb you. I am sorry to tell you, lassie, that there are mistakes in the work on that slate. I cannot tell you what they are, but I advise you to wash the slate clean and try to forget how you did the sum before. 'Rub out and try again,' is one of the best rules in such cases."