rds,
and answered them, and another which went back and back to the things
which had happened since she had last walked this bluff with the wind
in her face and the sound of the sea in her ears.

It seemed to her as if a lifetime had elapsed since last she had looked
at the Sankaty light.

II

When Becky wrote to Randy, she had a great deal to say about Archibald
Cope.

"He is trying to paint the moor. He wants to get its meaning, and then
make other people see what it means. He doesn't look in the least like
that, Randy--as if he were finding the spirit of things. He has red
hair and wears correct clothes, and says the right things, and you feel
as if he ought to be in Wall Street buying bonds. But here he is,
refusing to believe that anything he has done is worth while until he
does it to his own satisfaction.

"We walked to Tom Never's Head yesterday. It was one of those clear
silver days, a little cloudy and without much color. The cranberries
are ripe and the moor was carpeted with them. When we got to Tom
Never's we sat on the edge of the bluff, and Mr. Cope told me what he
meant about the moor. It has its moods, he said. On a quiet, cloudy
morning, it is a Quaker lady. With the fog in, it is a White Spirit.
There are purple twilights when it is--Cleopatra, and windy nights with
the sun going down blood-red, when it is--Medusa---- He says that the
trouble with the average picture is that it is just--paint. I am not
sure that I understand it all, but it is terribly interesting. And
when he had talked a lot about that, he talked of the history of the
island. He said that he should never be satisfied until somebody put a
bronze statue of an Indian right where we stood, with his back to the
sea. And when I said, 'Why with his back to it?' he said, 'Wasn't the
sea cruel to the red man? It brought a conquering race in ships.'

"I told him then about our Indians in Virginia, and that some of us had
a bit of red blood in our veins, and I told him that you and I always
used the old Indian war cry when we called to each other, and he asked,
'Who is Randy?' and I said that you were an old friend, and that we had
spent much of our childhood together."

As a matter of fact, Cope had been much interested in her account of
young Paine. "Do you mean to say that he is still living on all that
land?"

"Yes."

"Master of his own domain. I can't see it. The way I like to live is
with a paint box,