ee how any one can help appreciating it," he rejoined, after a
moment, looking up at the narrow, iron-barred windows. "Why, Genevieve,
this is our Bunker Hill, you know."

"I know," she said soberly. "How many was it? I've forgotten."

"About one hundred and eighty on the inside--here; and all the way from
two to six thousand on the outside--accounts differ. But it was
thousands, anyway, against one hundred and eighty--and it lasted ten
days or more."

Genevieve shuddered.

"And they all--died?"

"Every one--of the soldiers. There was a woman and a young child and a
negro servant left to tell the tale."

"That's what it means on the monument, isn't it?" murmured Genevieve.
"'Thermopylae had its messenger of defeat: the Alamo had none.'"

"Yes," said her father. "I've always wondered what Davy Crockett would
have said to that. You know he was here."

"Wasn't he the one who said, 'Be sure you are right, then go ahead'?"

"Yes. And he went ahead--straight to his death, here."

Genevieve's eyes brimmed with tears.

"Oh, it does make one want to be good and brave and true, doesn't it,
Father?"

"I reckon it ought to, little girl," he smiled gently.

"It does," breathed Genevieve. A moment later she crossed to Tilly's
side.

Tilly welcomed her with subdued joyousness.

"Genevieve, please, _please_ mayn't we get out of this?" she begged.
"Honestly, I feel as if I were besieged myself in this horrid tomb-like
place. And--and I like live soldiers so much better!"

Genevieve gave her a reproachful glance, but in a moment she suggested
that perhaps they had better go.

"Oh, but that was lovely," she sighed, as they came out into the bright
sunshine. "The caretaker told me they call it the 'Cradle of Liberty,'
here; and I don't wonder."

Tilly uptilted her chin--already the sunshine had brought back her usual
gayety of spirits.

"Dear me! what a lot of cradles Liberty must have had! You know Faneuil
Hall in Boston is _one_. Only think how far the poor thing must have
traveled between naps if she tried to sleep in all her cradles!"

Even Genevieve laughed--but she sighed reproachfully, too.

"Oh, Tilly, how you can turn poetry into prose--sometimes!" Then she
added wistfully: "How I wish I could see this Plaza on San Jacinto Day!"

"What is that?" demanded Tilly.

"The twenty-third of April. They have the Battle of the Flowers in the
Plaza here, in front of the Alamo. I've always wanted to see that."