Part 9 (2/2)

”Oh, yes,”, she caught her breath, ”Do you remember?”

He came into the room. ”I remembered a thousand times when I was in France. I thought of this room and of the Trumpeter Swan, and of how you and I used to listen on still nights and think we heard him.

There was one night after an awful day--with a moon like this over the battlefield, and across the moon came a black, thin streak--and a bugle sounded--far away. I was half asleep, and I said, 'Becky, there's the swan,' and the fellow next to me poked his elbow in my ribs, and said, 'You're dreaming.' But I wasn't--quite, for the thin black streak was a Zeppelin----”

She came up close to him and laid her hand on his arm. He towered above her. ”Randy,” she asked, ”was the war very dreadful?”

”Yes,” he said, ”it was. More dreadful than you people at home can ever grasp. But I want you to know this, Becky, that there isn't one of us who wouldn't go through it again in the same cause.”

There was no swagger in his statement, just simple earnestness. The room was very still for a moment.

Then Becky said, ”Well, it's awfully nice to have you home again,” and Randy, looking down at the little hand on his arm, had to hold on to himself not to put his own over it.

But she was too dear and precious----! So he just said, gently, ”And I'm glad to be at home, my dear,” and they walked to the window together, and stood looking out at the moon. Behind them the old eagle watched with outstretched wings, the great free bird which we stamp on American silver, backed with ”In G.o.d We Trust.” It is not a bad combination, and things in this country might, perhaps, have been less chaotic if we had taught new-comers to link love of G.o.d with love of liberty.

”Mr. Dalton is coming to see the birds,” said Becky, and in a moment she had spoiled everything for Randy.

”Is that why you put on your blue dress?”

She was honest. ”I am not sure. Perhaps.”

”Yet you thought the old white one was good enough for me.”

”Well, don't you like me just as well in my old white as in this?”

”Yes, of course.”

”Well, then,” Becky was triumphant, ”why should I bother to change for you, Randy, when you like me just as well in anything?”

The argument was unanswerable, but Randy was not satisfied. ”It is a mistake,” he said, ”not to be as like to old friends as new ones.”

”But I am nice. You said so yourself this afternoon. That I was sugar and spice and everything--nice----”

Ha laughed. ”You are, of course. And I didn't come all the way from France to quarrel with you----”

”We've always quarreled, Randy.”

”I wonder why?”

”Sister Loretto says that people only argue when they like each other.

Otherwise they wouldn't want to convince.”

”Do you quarrel with Sister Loretto?”

”Of course not. Nuns don't. But she writes notes when she doesn't agree with me--little sermons--and pins them on my pillow. She's a great dear. She hates to have me leave the school. She has the feeling that the world is a dark forest, and that I am Red Riding Hood, and that the Wolf will get me.”

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