The long morning loitered past. After dinner the Wright family dispersed for its customary Sunday afternoon nap. The senior warden, with _The Episcopalian_, as large as a small blanket, spread over his face, slept heavily in the library; Mrs. Wright dozed in her bedroom with one finger marking her place in a closed volume of sermons; the little girls wandered stealthily about the garden, memorizing by their father's orders their weekly hymn. The house was still, and very hot. All the afternoon young Sam lay upon his bed turning the pages of _The Wealth of Nations_, and brooding over his failures: he could not make Mrs. Richie love him; he could not write a great drama; he could not add up a column of figures; he could not understand his father's rages at unimportant things; "and nobody cares a continental whether I am dead or alive!--except mother," he ended; and his face softened. At five o'clock he reminded himself that he must go up to The Top for supper. But it was nearly six before he had energy enough to rise. The fact was, he shrank from telling his grandfather that the drama was no longer in existence. He had been somewhat rudely rebuffed by the only person who had looked at his manuscript, and had promptly torn the play up and scattered the fragments out of the window of his boarding-house. That was two days ago. The curious lassitude which followed this _acces_ of passion was probably increased by the senior warden's reproaches. But Sam believed himself entirely indifferent both to his literary failure, and to his father's scolding. Neither was in his mind as he climbed the hill, and halted for a wistful moment at the green gate in the hedge; but he had no glimpse of Mrs. Richie. He found his grandfather sitting on the veranda behind the big white columns, reading aloud, and gesticulating with one hand: "'But if proud Mortimer do wear this crown, Heaven turn it to a blaze of quenchless fire Or like the snaky wreath of Sisiphon--'" He looked up irritably at the sound of a step on the weedy driveway, then his eyes snapped with delight. "Hullo--hullo! what's this?" "I had to come back, grandfather," Sam said. "Well! Well!" said Benjamin Wright, his whole face wrinkling with pleasure. "'Had to come back?' Money gave out, I suppose? Sit down, sit down! Hi, Simmons! Damn that nigger. Simmons, here's Master Sam. What have you got for supper? Well, young man, did you get some sense knocked into you?" He was trembling with eagerness. Marlowe, in worm-eaten calf, dropped from his hand to the porch floor. Sam picked the book up, and sat down. "If you wanted some more money, why the devil didn't you say so?" "I had money enough, sir." "Well--what about the drama?" his grandfather demanded. "He said it was no good."