“’Aunt Allison, this wearing the white flower of a blameless life isn’t as easy as it is cracked up to be; but having this little pin helps a lot.  I just put my hand on that like the real knights used to do on their sword-hilts, and repeat my motto.  It will be easier when papa comes home.  Since I’ve known Jonesy, and heard him tell about the hard times some people have that he knows, it seems to me there’s an awful lot of wrong in the world for somebody to set right.  Some nights I can hardly go to sleep for thinking about it, and wishing that I were grown up so that I could begin to do my part.  I wish papa could be here now.  He’d make a splendid knight; he is so big and good and handsome.  I don’t s’pose King Arthur himself was any better or braver than my father is.’”

A tear splashed down from the mother’s eyes as she listened, and, falling on the tiny white flower as it lay in her husband’s hand, glistened beside the dewdrop centre like another diamond.

“Oh, Sydney!” she exclaimed, in a heart-broken way.  Something very like a sob shook the man’s broad shoulders, and, turning abruptly, he strode out of the room.

Down in the dim, green library, where the blinds had been drawn to keep it cool, he threw himself into a chair beside the table.  Propping Keith’s picture up in front of him against a pile of books, he leaned forward, gazing at it earnestly.  He had never realised before how much he loved the little son, who hour by hour seemed slowly slipping farther away from him.  The pictured face looked full into his as if it would speak.  It wore the same sweet, trustful expression that had shone there the night he talked to Jonesy of the Hall of the Shields; the same childish purity that had moved the old professor to lay his hands upon his head and call him Galahad.

All that gentle birth, college breeding, wealth, and travel could give a man, were Sydney Maclntyre’s, and yet, measuring himself by Keith’s standard of knighthood, he felt himself sadly lacking.  He had given liberally to charities hundreds of dollars, because it was often easier for him to write out a check than to listen to somebody’s tale of suffering.  But aside from that he had left the old world to wag on as best it could, with its grievous load of wrong and sorrow.

A man is not apt to trouble himself as to how it wags for those outside his circle of friends, when the generations before him have spent their time laying up a fortune for him to enjoy.  But this man was beginning to trouble himself about it now, as he paced restlessly up and down the room.  He was not thinking now about the things that usually occupied him, his social duties, his home or club, or yacht or horses or kennels.  He was not planning some new pleasure for his friends or family, he was wondering what he could do to be worthy of the exalted regard in which he was held by his little sons.  What wrong could he set right, to prove himself really as noble as they thought him?  He was their ideal of all that was generous and manly, and yet—­