"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 manuscript 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 manuscript 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 overthrown. 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 glass case. His hero felt himself likewise on the shelf, shut-in, stuffed, dead--his trumpet silent. "Am I, too, in a glass case?" he asked himself; "will my trumpet never sound again?"