"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
you asked for it. One day he thought he had a bad mark and he couldn't
eat any dinner--you thought he was ill; but he went to Miss Skinner the
next day and she took it off because he had been trying so hard to be
good. Joe, why don't you speak?"

"George, I'm proud of you!" said Langshaw simply. There was a slight
huskiness in his voice; the round face and guileless blue eyes of his
little boy, who had tried "awful hard to be good," seemed to have
acquired a new dignity. The father saw in him the grown-up son who could
be depended upon to look after his mother if need were. Langshaw held
out his hand as man to man; the two pairs of eyes met squarely. "Nothing
you could have done would have pleased me more than this, George. I
value it more than any Christmas present I could have."