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."
He picked up a large Roman locket of beaten silver that lay open on the
table. It held two exquisitely painted miniatures on ivory.
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