"Why, Mr. Morris!--Why, fellows!--Why, there's plenty of men in
the office who have done more than I have to--"

Then he sat down, the ring fast in his hand.

When the applause had subside--the young fellow's modesty had
caused a fresh outburst--Morris again rose in his chair and once
more the room grew still.

"Twelve o'clock, gentlemen," he said. "Mr. Downey, you are always
our stand-by in starting the old hymn."

The diners--host and guests alike--rose to their feet as one man.
Then to Peter's and my own intense surprise that most impressive
of all chants, the Doxology in long metre, surged out, gaining in
volume and strength as its strains were caught up by the different
voices.

With the ending of the grand old hymn--it had been sung with every
mark of respect by every man in the room--John Breen walked back
to his chair, leaned toward Peter, and with an apologetic tone in
his voice--he had evidently noticed the unfavorable impression
that Garry had made on his neighbor--said:

"Don't misjudge Garry, Mr. Grayson; he's the kindest hearted
fellow in the world when you know him. He's a little rough
sometimes, as you can see, but he doesn't mean it. He thinks his
way of talking and acting is what he calls 'up-to-date.'" Then he
added with a sigh: "I wish I had a ring like that--one that I had
earned. I tell you, Mr. Grayson, THAT'S something worth while."