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 quite fair, to him?”

“Then we’ll talk about his story.  It gripped me——­ Oh, let’s have it out, Becky.  He loves you and you don’t love him.  Why don’t you?”

“I can’t—–­tell you——­”

There was silence for a moment, then Archibald Cope said gently, “Look here, girl dear, you aren’t happy.  Don’t I know it?  There’s something that’s awfully on your mind and heart.  Can’t you think of me as a sort of—­father confessor—­and let me—­help——?”