Peter: a novel of which he is not the hero by Francis Hopkinson Smith
page 38 of 474 (08%)
page 38 of 474 (08%)
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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." |
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