ilt a fire under him,
but that isn't civilized, and of course, I couldn't. But I am glad I
dropped him in the fountain----"

Becky read Randy's letter as she sat alone on the beach. It was cool
and sunshiny and she was wrapped in a red cape. The winter gulls were
beating strong wings above the breakers, and their sharp cries cut
across the roar of the waters.

There had been a storm the night before--wind booming out of the
northeast and the sea still sang the song of it.

Becky felt, suddenly, that she was very angry with Randy. It was as if
he had broken a lovely thing that she had worshipped. She hated to
think of that struggle in the dark---- She hated to think of Randy
as--the Conqueror. She hated to think of George as dank and dripping.
She wanted to think of him as shining and splendid, and Randy had
spoiled that.

But she wanted to be fair. Hadn't George, after all, spoiled his own
splendidness? He had wooed her and had run away. And he had not run
back until he thought another man wanted her.

"Of course," said somebody behind her, "you won't tell me what you are
thinking about. But if you will just let me sit here and think, by
your side, it will be a great privilege."

It was Mr. Cope, and she was not sure that she wanted him at this
moment. Perhaps something of her thought showed in her eyes, for when
she said, "Oh, yes," he stood looking down at her. "Would you rather
be alone with your letters? Don't hedge and be polite. Tell me."

"Well," she admitted, "my letters are a bit on my mind. But if you
don't care if I am stupid, you can stay----"

He sat down. He had known her for ten days, and dreaded to think that
in ten days more she might be gone. "I won't talk if you don't wish
it."

Becky's eyes were on the sea. "I think I should like to talk. I have
been thinking--about that Indian that you want commemorated in bronze
up there on the bluff. Do you think he was cruel?"

"Who knows? He was, perhaps, a savage. Yet he may have been
tender-hearted. I hope so, if he is going to be fixed in bronze for
the ages to stare at."

"Did you," Becky asked, deliberately, "ever want to tie a man to a
stake and build a fire under him?"

He turned and stared at her. "My dear child, what ever put such an
idea in your head?"

"Well, did you?"

He considered it. "There was a time in France when I wanted to do
worse than that."

"But that was war."

"No, it was a brute in my o