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?" Archibald nodded. "In a quiet way it thrills. He hasn't used a word too much. But he carries one with him to a sort of--upper sky----" Becky, flushing and paling with the thought of such praise as this for Randy, said, "I always thought he could do it." But even she had not known that Randy could do what he did in the second part of the story. For in it Randy answered his own questions. There was no limit to a man's powers, no limits to his patriotism, if only he believed in himself. He must strive, of course, to achieve. But striving made him strong. His task might be simple, but its very simplicity demanded that he put his best into it. He must not measure himself by the rule of little men. If other men had made money while he fought, then let them be weighed down by their bags of gold. He would not for one moment set against their greed those sacred months of self-sacrifice. And as for the woman he loved. If his love meant anything it must burn with a pure flame. What he might have been for her, he would be because of her. He would not be less a man because he had loved her. And so the boy came in the end of the story to the knowledge that it was the brave souls who sounded their trumpets---- One did not strive for happiness. One strove for--victory. One strove, at least, for one clear note of courage, amid the clamor of the world. Louise, listening, forgot her beads. The Admiral blew his nose and wiped his eyes. Becky felt herself engulfed by a wave of surging memories. "That's corking stuff, do you know it?" Archibald was asking. Louise asked, "How old is he?" "Twenty-three." "He is young to have learned all that----" "All what, Louise?" Archibald asked. "Renunciation," said Louise, slowly, "that's what it is in the final analysis," she went back to her beads and her green bag. "Randy ought to do great things," said Becky; "the men of his family have all done great things, haven't they, Grandfather?" "Randolph blood is Randolph blood," said the Admiral; "fine old Southerners; proud old stock." "If I could write like that," said Archibald, and stopped and looked into the fire. Louise rose and came and stood back of him. "You can paint," she said, "why should you want to write?" "I can't paint," he reached up and caught her hand in his; "you think I can, but I can't. And I am not wonderful---- Yet here I must sit and listen while you and Becky sing young Paine's praises." He flung out his complaint with his air of not being in earnest. The Admiral got up stiffly. "I've a letter to write before I go to bed. Don't let me hurry the rest of you." "Please take Louise with you," Archibald begged; "I want to talk to Becky."