“We didn’t mean to do it,” said Keith, penitently.  “We just forgot, and I’m mighty sorry, truly I am, auntie!”

“I am not scolding you,” said Miss Allison, “but if I were either of you boys, I wouldn’t wear my little white flower when I dressed for dinner to-night.  Instead of being the protector of a distressed maiden, as the old knights would have said, you have done her a wrong,—­a serious one I am afraid,—­and that wrong ought to be made right as far as possible before you are worthy to wear the badge of knighthood again.”

“We’ll go and beg her pardon right now,” said Malcolm.

“No, she is asleep now, and I do not want her to be disturbed.  Besides, a mere apology is not enough.  You must make some kind of atonement.  The first thing for you to do, however, is to get some turpentine and remove that paint.  Where did you get it, boys?”

“Out of your paint-box, Aunt Allison,” said Malcolm.  “We didn’t think you would care.  I was only going to take a little, but it soaked in so fast that I had to use two tubes of it.”

“I used more than that,” confessed Keith, looking at her with his big honest eyes; “but I got so interested pretending that I was turning into a real Indian, that I never thought about its being anybody else’s paint, Aunt Allison, truly I didn’t!”

She turned away to hide a smile.  The earnest little face above the striped body was so very comical.  Picking up several of the empty tubes that had been squeezed quite flat, she read the labels.  “Rose madder and carmine,” she said, solemnly, “two of my very most expensive paints.”

“Dear me!” sighed Malcolm, “then there’s another wrong that’s got to be righted.  I guess Keith and I weren’t cut out for knights.  I’m beginning to think that it’s a mighty tough business anyhow.”

That night, when the boys came down to dinner, no little white flower with its diamond dewdrop centre shone on the lapel of either coat.  It had been a work of time to scrub off the paint, and then it took almost as long to get rid of the turpentine, so that dinner was ready long before Keith was finally clad in his flannels.  “My throat is sore,” he complained to Malcolm at bedtime, but did not mention it to any one else that night.  He sat on the side of his bed a moment before undressing, with one foot across his knee, staring thoughtfully at the lamp.  Presently, with one shoe in his hand and the other half unlaced, he hopped over to the dressing-table and stood before it, looking at first one picture and then another.

Eight different photographs of his mother were ranged along the table below the wide mirror, some taken in evening dress, some in simple street costume, and each one so beautiful that it would have been hard to decide which one had the greatest charm.

“I wish mamma was here to-night,” said Keith, softly, with a little quiver of his lip.  “Seems like she’s been gone almost always.”