"And you and I shall see Boston together," Archibald told Becky,
triumphantly. "I wonder if you have ever seen Boston as I shall show it
to you."

"Well, I've been to all the historic places."

"Bunker Hill and the embattled farmers, of course," said Archibald; "but
have you seen them since the war?"

"No. Are they different?"

"They aren't, but you are. All of us are."

Louise was not quite sure that her brother ought to leave the island.
"You are down here for the air, Arch, and the quiet."

He was impatient. "Do you think I am going to miss this?"

She frowned and shook her head. "I don't want you to miss it. But it
will be going against the doctor's orders."

"Oh, hang the doctor, Louise. Being in Boston with Becky will be
like--wine----"

But she was not satisfied. "You always throw yourself into things
so--desperately----"

"Well, when I lose my enthusiasm I want to--die."

"No, you don't, Arch. Don't say things like that." Her voice was sharp.

He patted her hand. "I won't. But don't curb me too much, old girl. Let
me play--while I can----"

They arrived in Boston to find a city under martial law, a city whose
streets were patrolled by khaki-clad figures with guns, whose traffic
was regulated by soldierly semaphores, who linked intelligence with
military training, and picturesqueness with both.

For a short season Boston had been in the hands of the mob. All of her
traditions of law and order had not saved her. It had been her
punishment perhaps for leaving law and order in the hands of those who
cared nothing for them. People with consciences had preferred to keep
out of politics. So for a time demagogues had gotten the ear of the
people, and chaos had resulted until a quiet governor had proved himself
as firm as steel, and soldiers had replaced the policemen who had for a
moment followed false gods.

"It all proves what I brought you here to see," Cope told Becky eagerly.

Coffee was being served in the library of the Meredith mansion on Beacon
Street. The Admiral's library was as ruddy and twinkling as the little
man himself. He had furnished it to suit his own taste. A great
davenport of puffy red velvet was set squarely in front of a fireplace
with shining brasses. The couch was balanced by a heavy gilt chair also
in puffy red. The mantel was in white marble, and over the mantel was an
oil portrait of the Admiral's wife painted in '76. She wore red velvet
with a train, and with the pea