Peter laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and looked him
straight in the face, the same look in his eyes that a proud
father would have given a son who had pleased him. He had heard
with delight the boy's defence of his friend and he had read the
boy's mind as he sang the words of the hymn, his face grave, his
whole attitude one of devotion. "You'd think he was in his
father's pew at home," Peter had whispered to me with a smile. It
was the latter outburst though--the one that came with a sigh--
that stirred him most.

"And you would really have liked a ring yourself, my lad?"

"Would I like it! Why, Mr. Grayson, I'd rather have had Mr. Morris
give me a thing like that and DESERVED IT, than have all the money
you could pile on this table."

One of those sudden smiles which his friends loved so well
irradiated Peter's face.

"Keep on the way you're going, my son," he said, seizing the boy's
hand, a slight tremble in his voice, "and you'll get a dozen of
them."

"How?" The boy's eyes were wide in wonderment.

"By being yourself. Don't let go of your ideals no matter what
Minott or anybody else says. Let him go his way and do you keep on
in yours. Don't ... but I can't talk here. Come and see me. I mean
it."