ousse silver. The Admiral would
have no other. It had been given him by a body of seamen when he had
retired from active duty.

"It all proves what I brought you here to see," Archibald emphasized,
"how the gods of yesterday are going to balance the gods of to-day."

The Admiral chuckled. "There aren't any gods of to-day."

"The gods of to-day are our young men," Cope flung out, glowingly; "the
war has left them with their dreams, and they have got to find a way to
make their dreams come true. And that's where the old gods will help.
Those fine old men who dreamed, backed their dreams with deeds. Then
for a time we were so busy making money that we forgot their dreams.
And when foreigners came crowding to our shores, we didn't care whether
they were good Americans or not. All we cared was to have them work in
our mills and factories and in our kitchens, and let us alone in our
pride of ancestry and pomp of circumstance. We forgot to show them
Bunker Hill and to tell them about the old North Church and Paul Revere
and the shot heard 'round the world, and what liberty meant and
democracy, and now we've got to show them. I am going to take you
around to-morrow, Becky, and pretend you are Olga from Petrograd, and
that you are seeing America for the first time."

Archibald Cope was kindled by fires which gave color to his pale
cheeks. "Will you be--Olga from Petrograd?"

"I'd love it."

But the next morning it rained. "And you can't, of course, be Olga of
Petrograd in the rain. Bunker Hill must have the sun on it, and the
waves of the harbor must be sparkling when I tell you about the tea."

They decided, therefore, to read aloud "The Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table."

"Then if it stops raining," said Archibald, "we'll step straight out
from its pages into the Boston that I want to show you."

He read well. Louise sat at a little table sewing a pattern of beads
on a green bag. Becky had some rose-colored knitting. The Admiral was
in his big chair by the fire with his hands folded across his waistcoat
and his eyes shut. The colorful work of the two women, the light of
the fire, the glow of the little lamp at Cope's elbow, the warmth of
the red furniture saved the room from dreariness in spite of the rain
outside.

"'It was on the Common,'" read Cope, "'that we were walking. The mall,
or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from
it in different directions. One of these