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 wrong way. I was angry. You'd have been angry, too."

"I know." She was silent a moment. "He's worked hard this summer."

Mr. Quinby nodded. "Maybe I ought to jump his allowance. That would cheer him up."

"Perhaps. . . ." Mrs. Quinby hesitated. "Perhaps it would be better if you gave him a hint that you didn't mean to be so sharp. . . ."

"Good Heavens! Do I have to apologize to my own son? It isn't as bad as that, is it?" Mr. Quinby laughed. "He'll be the happiest kid in Springham when he gets two dollars next Saturday instead of the one he expects."

But Bert showed no particular emotion. He counted the money, counted it again to make sure he had not made a mistake, said a short "Thank you," and was gone. A week ago the increase would have fluttered his heart.

"I can't make head nor tail of that boy," Mr. Quinby complained to his wife that night. "At his age I'd have thought twenty-five cents a fortune. He took the two dollars as casually as though he could pick notes off the sidewalk any time he wanted to bend his head. What's getting into the boys of to-day?"

Mrs. Quinby said nothing. She felt that a word of regret would have accomplished more. She knew the boy.

And so the summer ran to its end, and the