The gate-latch clicked: Jack walked rapidly down the street, whistling "Kathleen Mavourneen" unconsciously. Did he dream the simple faith of boyhood had reached its culmination, and was henceforth to wane?
"Dear old Jack," thought Fred: "I don't know as he is quite Launcelot, though I used to think so at first. But there was Sir Gawain and Sir Bedevere and a host of worthies, and if he only would he could come up to the highest. What makes him so obstinate and unambitious, I wonder? Are there any King Arthurs and loyal knights nowadays, or only common men and women?"
His sisters opened upon him with the fatal persistency of narrow feminine natures.
"You may say what you like about Jack Darcy," he flung out angrily, "but you'll never make me give him up,—never, never!"
"Do hush, children," interposed Mrs. Lawrence. "Fred, I hope you will learn to modulate your voice, and not shriek so."
Sylvie put on her hat to go home. As she passed Fred she said just above her breath,—
"You are right and brave. I wouldn't give up my friend because he was poor; and Jack is so nice!"
"Much she knows about it," thought Fred, with a true boyish disdain. Yet her approval of Jack was a virtue in his eyes.