“Upon the brimming water, among the stones
  Are nine and fifty swans. 
  Unwearied still, lover by lover,
  They paddle in the cold
  Companionable streams or climb the air;
  Their hearts have not grown old;
  Passion and conquest, wander where they will. 
  Attend upon them still——­”

From the frozen north the swan had come to the sheltered bay and some one had shot him.  He had not been asked if he wanted to live; they had taken his life, and had set him up there on the shelf—­and that had been the end of him.

But was it the end?  Stuffed and quiet in his glass case, he had looked down on a little boy.  And the little boy had seen him not dead, but sounding his trumpet.  And now the whole world would hear of him.  In Randy’s story, the Trumpeter would live again in the hearts of men.

The wind was rising—­the fog blown back before it showed the golden track of the sea—­light stretching to infinity!

He rose and stood by the rail.  Then suddenly he felt a hand upon his, and looking down, he saw Becky.

“I ran away from Randy,” she said, breathlessly, “just for a moment.  I was afraid you might be alone, and unhappy.”

His hand held hers.  “Just for this moment you are mine?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me tell you this—­that I shall never be alone as long as I may have your friendship—­I shall always be happy because I have—­loved you.”

He kissed her hand.  “Run back to your Randy.  Good-night, my dear, good-night.”

Her lover received her rapturously at the door of the little house.  They went in together.  And Archibald looked out, smiling, over a golden sea.