condition rise." I wonder what he meant? I asked Tom, and he said I
was a fool.

'Weren't you proud of Harold, though, the day he graduated? What an
oration that was! and how the building shook with applause when he
came on and when he went off! And do you remember the expression of
his face when he picked up the bouquet of roses I threw him, and
looked over where we sat? I thought he touched his lips to them, but
was not sure. Do you remember? He is studying law now all the time
he can get in Judge St. Claire's office, but he comes to read to me
for an hour or more nearly every day. He came of his own accord,
too. I did not ask him, or even hint, as Tom says I do, when I want
anything; and sometimes I half think he is trying to drive something
into my head, or was, when he began to read to me about those old
Greeks, Hesiod, or Herod, I don't know which, and Theogony--that's
rather a pretty name, don't you think so? But I could not stand the
Greeks. My mind is too weak to be impressed by anything Grecian,
unless it is the Grecian bend. You tried it until you were
discouraged and gave it up, telling me I was the stupidest idiot you
ever saw! That was the time we had the a spelling-school in the
Tramp House, and you were the teacher, and Harold chose me first,
and I spelled biscuit "bisket!" Do you remember how I cried? and
when you told me nobody would ever like me unless I knew something,
Harold said. "Don't talk like that, Jerrie; those who know the least
are frequently liked the best."

'What a comfort those words have been to me; and especially at the
time when I failed so utterly in examination at Vassar and had to
give it up. Oh, Jerrie, you do not know how mortified I was over
that failure, to think I knew so little; and the worst of it is I
can't learn, or understand; or remember, and it makes my head ache
so to try. I am sorry most on father's account, he is so proud of
me and would like to see me take the lead in everything. Poor
father! he is growing old so fast. Why, his hair is white as snow,
and he sometimes talks to himself just as Uncle Arthur does. I
wonder what ails him that he never smiles or seems interested in
anything except when I am smoothing his hair or sitting on his knee;
then he brightens up and calls me his pet and darling, and talks
queer kind of