"I want you to read this, Becky. It belongs in a way to you. I don't know what I think about it. Sometimes it seems as if I had done a rather big thing, and as if it had been done without me at all. I wonder if you understand what I mean--as if I had held the pen, and it had--come---- I have sent it to the editor of one of the big magazines. Perhaps he will send it back, and it may not seem as good to me as it does at this moment. Let me know what you think."

Becky, finishing the letter, felt a bit forlorn. Randy, as a rule, wrote at length about herself and her affairs. But, of course, he had other things now to think of. She must not expect too much.

There was no time, however, in which to read the ma.n.u.script, for Cope was saying, wistfully, "Do you think you'd mind a walk in the rain?"

"No." She gathered up her letters.

"Then we'll walk across the Common."

They shared one umbrella. And they played that it was over fifty years ago when the Autocrat had walked with the young Schoolmistress. They even walked arm in arm under the umbrella. They took the long path to Boylston Street. And Cope said, "Will you take the long path with me?"

And Becky said, "Certainly."

And they both laughed. But there was no laughter in Cope's heart.

"Becky," he said, "I wish that you and I had lived a century ago in Louisburg Square."

"If we had lived then, we shouldn't be living now."

"But we should have had our--happiness----"

"And I should have worn lovely flowing silk skirts. Not short things like this, and little bonnets with flowers inside, and velvet mantles----"

"And you would have walked on my arm to church. And we would have owned one of those old big houses--and your smile would have greeted me across the candles every day at dinner----" He was making it rather personal, but she humored his fancy.

"And you would have worn a blue coat, and a bunch of big seals, and a furry high hat----"

"You are thinking all the time about what we would wear," he complained; "you haven't any sense of romance, Becky----"

"Well, of course, it is all make-believe."

"Yes, it is all--make-believe," he said, and walked in silence after that.

The wind blew cold and they stopped in a pastry shop on Boylston Street and had a cup of tea. Becky ate little cream cakes with fluted crusts, and drank Orange Pekoe.

"I am glad you don't wear flowing silks and velvet mantles," said Archibald, suddenly; "I shall always remember you like this, Becky, in your rough brown coat and your close little hat, and that your hand was on my arm when we walked across the Common. Do you like me as a playmate, Becky?"

"Yes."

"Do you--love me--as a playmate?" He leaned forward.

"Please--don't."

"I beg your--pardon----" he flushed. "I am not going to say such things to you, Becky, and spoil things for both of us--I know you don't want to hear them----"

"Make-believe is much nicer," she reminded him steadily.

"But I am not a make-believe friend, am I? Our friendship--that at least is--real?"

Her clear eyes met his. "Yes. We shall always be friends--forever----"

"How long is forever, Becky?"

She could not answer that. But she was sure that friendship was like love and lived beyond the grave. They were very serious about it, these two young people drinking tea.

II

It was when the four of them were gathered together that night in the library that Becky asked Archibald Cope to read "The Trumpeter Swan."

"Randy wrote it," she said, "and he sent the ma.n.u.script to me this morning."

The Admiral was at once interested. "He got the name from the swan in the Judge's Bird Room?"

"Yes."

"Has he ever written anything before?" Louise asked.

"Lots of little things. Lovely things----"

"Have they been published?"

"I don't think he has tried."

Becky had the ma.n.u.script in her work-bag. She brought it out and handed it to Archibald. "You are sure you aren't too tired?"

Louise glanced up from her beaded bag. "You've had a hard day, Arch.

You mustn't do too much."

"I won't, Louise," impatiently.

She went back to her work. "It will be on your own head if you don't sleep to-night, not on mine."

"The Trumpeter Swan" was a story of many pages. Randy had confined himself to no conventional limits. He had a story to tell, and he did not bring it to an end until the end came naturally. In it he had asked all of the questions which had torn his soul. What of the men who had fought? What of their futures? What of their high courage?

Their high vision? Was it all now to be wasted? All of that aroused emotion? All of that disciplined endeavor? Would they still "carry on" in the spirit of that crusade, or would they sink back, and forget?

His hero was a simple lad. He had fought for his country. He had found when he came back that other men had made money while he fought for them. He loved a girl. And in his absence she had loved someone else. For a time he was over-thrown.

Yet he had been one of a glorious company. One of that great flock which had winged its exalted flight to France. Throughout the story Randy wove the theme of the big white bird in the gla.s.s case. His hero felt himself likewise on the shelf, shut-in, stuffed, dead--his trumpet silent.

"Am I, too, in a gla.s.s case?" he asked himself; "will my trumpet never sound again?"

The first part of the story ended there. "Jove," Cope said, as he looked up, "that boy can write----"

Louise had stopped working. "It is rather--tremendous, don't you think?"