ining place, Donald McClain. But he came over
nearly every day for four years, and they grew to love each other like
brother and sister. It was a lonesome time for the little Patricia
when the McClains moved away. Donald brought her a tiny carnelian ring
the day he came over for the last time. 'To remember me by,' he said,
and she put it on her finger and remembered him always, as the
kindest, manliest little playmate any child ever had.

"She grew up after awhile to be a beautiful young girl. I will show
you her miniature sometime, with the pearls around it. The little
carnelian ring was too small then, and she had to lay it away; but she
never forgot her old playmate. When she was nineteen her mother died,
and, soon after, her father lost his eyesight, and she gave up all her
time to caring for him. She sang to him, read to him, led him around
the garden, and amused him constantly. She never went anywhere without
him, never thought of her own pleasure, but stayed alone with him in
the quiet old house, year after year, until he died.

"Donald came back once after he was a man, and had been through
college, and stayed all summer in his old home. He was going to
Scotland in the fall. Before he left, he asked Aunt Patricia to be his
wife and go with him. She said, 'I would, Donald, if I were not needed
so much here at home; but how could I go away and leave my poor old
blind father?'

"He would not take no for an answer, but went away, saying that he
would be back again in a year, and then they would take care of the
dear old father together. But when the year was over, the ship that
was bringing him home went down at sea in a storm, and all that Aunt
Patricia had left of his was his letters, and the little carnelian
ring he had given her, when they were children, to 'remember him by.'
And that is the ring that Dago lost."

Phil raised his head quickly from his father's shoulder. "Oh, papa!"
he cried. "I'm so sorry! I never could have said anything mean to her
if I had known all that."

His father went on. "That is why I am telling you this now, my son.
Maybe children could understand old people better, if they knew how
much they had suffered in their long lives, how much they had lost,
and how much they had given up for other people's sakes. Aunt Patricia
has been like a mother to me ever since I was left without any, when I
was Stuart's age. She sent me to college, she gave me a home with her
until I was successfu