filled days, each one seemingly a little more unbearable than the
last. Of course, it could not continue indefinitely, and Keith, in his
heart, knew it. Almost every lesson was more or less of a failure, and
recitation hour was a torture and a torment. The teacher alternately
reproved and reproached him, with frequent appeals to his pride,
holding up for comparison his splendid standing of the past. His
classmates gibed and jeered mercilessly. And Keith stood it all. Only
a tightening of his lips and a new misery in his eyes showed that he
had heard and understood. He made neither apology nor explanation.
Above all, by neither word nor sign did he betray that, because the
print in his books was blurred, he could not study.

Then came the day when his report card was sent to his father, and he
himself was summoned to the studio to answer for it.

"Well, my son, what is the meaning of that?"

Keith had never seen his father look so stern. He was holding up the
card, face outward. Keith knew that the damning figures were there,
and he suspected what they were, though he could see only a blurred
mass of indistinct marks. With one last effort he attempted still to
cling to his subterfuge.

"What--what is it?" he stammered.

"'What is it?'--and in the face of a record like that!" cried his
father sternly. "That's exactly what I want to know. What is it? Is
this the way, Keith, that you're showing me that you don't want to go
to school? I haven't forgotten, you see, that you tried to beg off
going this fall. Now, what is the matter?"