"Sure, dearie! The Alamo it shall be," smiled her father. "Then to-morrow I'll take you to Fort Sam Houston where there are _live_ soldiers." "Oh, is there an army post here, truly?" cried Tilly. "Only the largest in the country," answered the Texan, proudly. "Really? Oh, how splendid! I just love soldiers!" "Really?" mimicked Mr. Hartley, mischievously. "They'll be pleased to know it, I'm sure, Miss Tilly." The others laughed. Tilly blushed and shrugged her shoulders; but she asked no more questions about Fort Sam Houston for at least five minutes. "Now where's the place--the really, truly place?" demanded Cordelia, in an awed voice, when the party had reached the Alamo Plaza. "The place--the real place, Miss Cordelia," replied Mr. Hartley, "where the fight occurred, was in a court over there; and the walls were pulled down years ago. But this little chapel was part of it, and this is what everybody always looks at and talks about. The relics are inside. We'll go in and see them, if you like." "If we like!" cried Genevieve, fervently. "Just as if we didn't want to see everything--every single thing there is to see!" she finished, as her father led the way into the dim interior under the watchful eyes of the caretaker. Even Tilly, for a moment, was silenced in the hush and somberness of the place. Genevieve stole to her father's side. Mr. Hartley, with bared head, was wearing a look of grave reverence. "You appreciate it, don't you, Father?" she said softly. "You have always talked such a lot about it." He nodded. "I don't see how any one can help appreciating it," he rejoined, after a moment, looking up at the narrow, iron-barred windows. "Why, Genevieve, this is our Bunker Hill, you know." "I know," she said soberly. "How many was it? I've forgotten." "About one hundred and eighty on the inside--here; and all the way from two to six thousand on the outside--accounts differ. But it was thousands, anyway, against one hundred and eighty--and it lasted ten days or more." Genevieve shuddered. "And they all--died?" "Every one--of the soldiers. There was a woman and a young child and a negro servant left to tell the tale." "That's what it means on the monument, isn't it?" murmured Genevieve. "'Thermopylæ had its messenger of defeat: the Alamo had none.'" "Yes," said her father. "I've always wondered what Davy Crockett would have said to that. You know he was here." "Wasn't he the one who said, 'Be sure you are right, then go ahead'?" "Yes. And he went ahead--straight to his death, here." Genevieve's eyes brimmed with tears. "Oh, it does make one want to be good and brave and true, doesn't it, Father?" "I reckon it ought to, little girl," he smiled gently. "It does," breathed Genevieve. A moment later she crossed to Tilly's side. Tilly welcomed her with subdued joyousness.