For a week there was no letter from Oliver, and at the end of that time a few lines scrawled on a sheet of hotel paper explained that he spent every minute of his time at the theatre. "Poor fellow, it's dreadfully hard on him, isn't it?" Virginia said to her mother, when she showed her the imposing picture of the hotel at the head of his letter. There was no hint of compassion for herself in her voice. Her pity was entirely for Oliver, constrained to be away for two whole weeks from his children, who grew more interesting and delightful every day that they lived. "Harry has gone into the first reader," she added, turning from the storeroom shelves on which she was laying strips of white oilcloth. "He will be able to read his lesson to Oliver when he comes home." "I have always understood that your father could read his Bible at the age of four," remarked Mrs. Pendleton, who passionately treasured this solitary proof of the rector's brilliancy. "I am afraid Harry is backward. He hates his letters--especially the letter A--so much that it takes me an hour sometimes to get him to say it after me. My only comfort is that Oliver says he couldn't read a line until he was over seven years old. Would you scallop this oilcloth, mother, or leave it plain?" "I always scallop mine. Mrs. Treadwell must be better, Jinny; Susan sent me a dessert yesterday." "Yes, but she will never be able to move herself. Do you think that poor Susan will marry John Henry now?" "I wonder?" replied Mrs. Pendleton vaguely. Then the sound of Harry's laughter floated in suddenly from the backyard, and her eyes, following Virginia's, turned automatically to the pantry window. "They've come home for a snack, I suppose?" she said. "Shall I fix some bread and preserves for them?" "Oh, I'll do it," responded Virginia, while she reached for the crock of blackberry jam on the shelf at her side. Another week passed and there was no word from Oliver, until Mrs. Pendleton came in at dusk one evening, with an anxious look on her face and a folded newspaper held tightly in her hand. "Have you seen any of the accounts of Oliver's play, Jinny?" she asked. "No, I haven't had time to look at the papers to-day--Harry has hurt his foot." She spoke placidly, looking up from the nursery floor, where she knelt beside a basin of warm water at Harry's feet. "Poor little fellow, he fell on a pile of bricks," she added, "but he's such a hero he never even whimpered, did he, darling?" "But it hurt bad," said Harry eagerly. "Of course, it hurt dreadfully, and if he hadn't been a man he would have cried." "Sister would have cried," exulted the hero. "Indeed, sister would have cried. Sister is a girl," responded Virginia, smothering him with kisses over the basin of water. But Mrs. Pendleton refused to be diverted from her purpose even by the heroism of her grandson.