He copied upon the margin of his newspaper the figures written by the teacher before he gave back the slate, and when she had washed it, set down the sum again for her. "You make prettier figures than Mr. Tayloe does," said Flea, gratefully, laying her cheek against the brawny hand. She fell to work with fresh zeal. Now and then her father stole a pitying glance at her intent face, but he did not interrupt her. At half past ten Mrs. Grigsby's disapproving visage appeared at the door. Her husband shook his head authoritatively; she shut her teeth down upon the exclamation that was between them, and vanished. At eleven o'clock the premises were still, except for the occasional rustle of the newspaper and the continuous scratch of Flea's pencil. At half past eleven she laid down the pencil and rubbed her cramped fingers. "Father, would it be helping me if you were to look at it, and tell me if it is right now?" Both sides of the slate were covered with figures, so childish and unevenly rounded that the father's heart ached at the sight. In reaching the bottom of the second side he smiled and patted the head leaning against his shoulder. "Well done, lassie! It was a tough fight, but you've won it. I am proud of you, my little heroine!" He not only kissed her "Good-night" twice, but he went all the way up stairs with her, lighted her bedroom candle, looked to the fastenings of the windows, and, Flea strongly suspected, was within an ace of offering to help her undress. Poor father! he had called her a heroine just because she had done a sum in long division! The missing report did not come to light. The next morning being dry and sunny, the children went by the field path to school, purposely to look about the door of the haunted house to see if Flea could have lost the paper there. There was no sign of it. In case she could not find it, she was to give the teacher a note of explanation written by her father. Mr. Tayloe had not arrived when she got to the school-house, and she laid the note upon the Bible that was on his desk, where he could not help seeing it. He read it, drawing his brows together, but said nothing of the contents until the second class in arithmetic came up to recite. "Felicia Grigsby!" was the first name called. A subdued rustle ran through the school. By now the children had learned to understand when there was war in the pale eyes. Flea stepped forward and offered her slate. The pale eyes snapped. "Whose figures are these?" "The sum was so rubbed that my father wrote it down for me again," said Flea, modestly and simply. "That's a likely story. We'll talk more of it presently." He went over the sum to himself, making a sort of humming noise without unclosing his lips. This "um-m-m-m!" was the only sound in the room. When he read the quotient, he snorted violently. "Your father is a good hand at long division. You can tell him that I said so when you go home."