He paused.  “Lesson the second would have to do with the old churches.”

They had stopped by the rail; the wind buffeted them, but they did not heed it.  “It was in the churches that the ideals of the new nation were crystallized.  No country prospers which forgets its God.”

“Lesson number three,” he went on, “would have had to do with the bookshops.”

“The bookshops?”

He nodded.  “The old bookshops and the new of Boston.  I would have taken you to them, and I would have said, ’Here, Olga, is the voice of the nation speaking to you through the printed page.  Learn to read in the language of your new country.’  Oh, Becky,” he broke off, “I wanted to show you the bookshops.  It’s a perfect pilgrimage——­”

The Admiral, swaying to the wind, came up to them.  “Hadn’t you better go inside?” he shouted.  “Becky will freeze out here.”

They followed him.  The cabin was comparatively quiet after the tumult.  Louise was still working on the green bag.  “What have you two been doing?” she asked.

“Playing Olga of Petrograd,” said Archibald, moodily, “but Becky was cold and came in.”

“Grandfather brought me in,” said Becky.

“If you had cared to stay, you would have stayed,” he told her, rather unreasonably.  “Perhaps, after all, Boston to Olga simply means baked beans which she doesn’t like, and codfish which she prefers—­raw——­”

“Now you have spoiled it all,” said Becky.  “I loved the things that you said about the churches and the bookshops and Bunker Hill.”

“Did you?  Well, it is all true, Becky, the part they have played in making us a nation.  And it is all going to be true again.  We Americans aren’t going to sell our birthright for a mess of pottage.”

And now the island once more rose out of the sea.  The little steamer had some difficulty in making a landing.  But at last they were on shore, and the ’bus was waiting, and it was after dark when they reached “The Whistling Sally.”

The storm was by that time upon them—­the wind blew a wild gale, but the little gray cottage was snug and warm.  Jane in her white apron went unruffled about her pleasant tasks—­storms might come and storms might go—­she had no fear of them now, since none of her men went down to the sea in ships.

Tristram in shining oilskins brought up their bags.  He stood in the hall and talked to them, and before he went away, he said casually over his shoulder, “There’s a gentleman at the hotel that has asked for you once or twice.”

“For me?” the Admiral questioned.

“You and Miss Becky.”

“Do you know his name?”

“It’s Dalton.  George Dalton——­”

“I don’t know any Daltons.  Do you, Becky?”

Becky stood by the table with her back to them.  She did not turn.  “Yes,” she said in a steady voice.  “There was a George Dalton whom I met this summer—­in Virginia.”