Diana and Noel were looking at a beautiful book of engravings together which belonged to their grandmother and had been left in the cottage. Diana was weaving stories out of every picture, and Noel listened to her with the greatest interest. Chris crept up close to his mother's chair, and sat down on a stool at her feet.
"I wish I was clever like Dinah," he sighed. "I can't write stories, Mums: I've tried and tried and tried. You'll never see a book of mine in print. There'll be nothing for you to be proud about in me."
His mother caressed his smooth brown head with her loving hand.
"Now, Chris, we'll have a little talk together. God gives us all different gifts. It isn't everyone who can write books. I am glad it isn't. We have quite enough books in the world as it is. And, do you know, I am very glad that my eldest son does not write stories. Somehow or other, I don't think it is very noble or uplifting work for strong men to do. A man who spends his life in making up stories of what silly men and women do and say isn't much of a man, to my thinking. Mind, Chris, there are great writers amongst men, and writers who do a lot of good by their pen, but there are men who do the reverse. I would far rather my son went out into the world, and endured hardness and worked hard for his country and fellow-men. I want you to be an Empire-builder, my boy, or an Empire-keeper. You can be a sailor, or a soldier, or a judge, or a policeman, or even a colonist, but if you're putting God first, service for country next, and self last, I shall be proud of my son."
Chris squared his shoulders. His heart caught fire at his mother's words.
"I will make you proud of me, Mums," he said earnestly. "I will work hard all my life till I die."
And then his mother stooped and kissed the top of his head, and a bright tear fell as she said:
"God bless and keep you, my boy, and help you to keep your promise."
Chris was a happy boy that night. He had often bewailed his inferiority to his sister, who was so quick and agile with her words and pen, but now he felt that he had a goal in front of him: a vision in which he saw himself as a doer if not a talker or a writer; and he fell asleep murmuring to himself:
"I'll do, do, do, and Mums will be proud of me!"