big lot at Easter, father had shared his chest
till with me. The chest stood in our room, and in it lay his wedding
suit, his every Sunday clothes, his best hat with a red silk
handkerchief in the crown, a bundle of precious newspapers he was
saving on account of rare things in them he wanted for reference, and
in the till was the wallet of ready money he kept in the house for
unexpected expense, his deeds, insurance papers, all his particular
private papers, the bunches of lead pencils, slate pencils, and the box
of pens from which he supplied us for school. Since I had grown so
rich, he had gone partners with me, and I might lift the lid, open the
till and take out my little purse that May bought from the huckster for
my last birthday. I wasn't to touch a thing, save my own, and I never
did; but I knew precious well what was there.

If Mr. Pryor thought my father didn't amount to much because he lived
on land; if it made him think more of him, to know that he could be in
the legislature if he chose, maybe he'd think still more----

I lifted the papers, picked it up carefully, and slipping back quietly,
I laid it on Mr. Pryor's knee. He picked it up and held it a minute,
until he finished what he was saying to mother, and then he looked at
it. Then he looked long and hard. Then he straightened up and looked
again.

"God bless my soul!" he cried.

You see when he was so astonished he didn't know what he was saying, he
called on God, just as father says every one does. I took a side look
at mother. Her face was a little extra flushed, but she was still
smiling; so I knew she wasn't angry with me, though of course she
wouldn't have shown the thing herself. She and father never did,
except as each of us grew big enough to be taught about the Crusaders.
Father said he didn't care the snap of his finger about it, except as
it stood for hardihood and bravery. But Mr. Pryor cared! He cared
more than he could say. He stared, and stared, and over and over he
wonderingly repeated:

"God bless my soul!"

"Where did you get the crest of the Earl of Eastbrooke, the master of
Stanton house?" he demanded. "Stanton house!" he repeated. "Why--why,
the name! It's scarcely possible, but----"

"But there it is!" laughed mother. "A mere bauble for show and
amounting to nothing on earth save as it stands a mark for brave men
who have striven to conquer."

"Surgere tento!" read Mr. Pryor, from the little shield. "F