have been for her, he would be because
of her. He would not be less a man because he had loved her.

And so the boy came in the end of the story to the knowledge that it was
the brave souls who sounded their trumpets---- One did not strive for
happiness. One strove for--victory. One strove, at least, for one clear
note of courage, amid the clamor of the world.

Louise, listening, forgot her beads. The Admiral blew his nose and wiped
his eyes. Becky felt herself engulfed by a wave of surging memories.

"That's corking stuff, do you know it?" Archibald was asking.

Louise asked, "How old is he?"

"Twenty-three."

"He is young to have learned all that----"

"All what, Louise?" Archibald asked.

"Renunciation," said Louise, slowly, "that's what it is in the final
analysis," she went back to her beads and her green bag.

"Randy ought to do great things," said Becky; "the men of his family
have all done great things, haven't they, Grandfather?"

"Randolph blood is Randolph blood," said the Admiral; "fine old
Southerners; proud old stock."

"If I could write like that," said Archibald, and stopped and looked
into the fire.

Louise rose and came and stood back of him. "You can paint," she said,
"why should you want to write?"

"I can't paint," he reached up and caught her hand in his; "you think I
can, but I can't. And I am not wonderful---- Yet here I must sit and
listen while you and Becky sing young Paine's praises."

He flung out his complaint with his air of not being in earnest.

The Admiral got up stiffly. "I've a letter to write before I go to bed.
Don't let me hurry the rest of you."

"Please take Louise with you," Archibald begged; "I want to talk to
Becky."

His sister rumpled his hair. "So you want to get rid of me. Becky, he is
going to ask questions about that boy who wrote the story."

"Are you?" Becky demanded.

"Louise is a mind reader. That's why I want her out of the way----"

"You can stay until the Admiral finishes his letter." Louise bent and
kissed him, picked up her beaded bag, and left them together.

When she reached the threshold, she stopped and looked back. Archibald
had piled up two red cushions and was sitting at Becky's feet.

"Tell me about him."

"Randy?"

"Yes. He's in love with you, of course."

"What makes you think that?"

"He sent you the story."

"Well, he is," she admitted, "but I am not sure that we ought to talk
about it."

"Why not?"

"Is it qui