He came into the room. "I remembered a thousand times when I was in
France. I thought of this room and of the Trumpeter Swan, and of how you
and I used to listen on still nights and think we heard him. There was
one night after an awful day--with a moon like this over the
battlefield, and across the moon came a black, thin streak--and a bugle
sounded--far away. I was half asleep, and I said, 'Becky, there's the
swan,' and the fellow next to me poked his elbow in my ribs, and said,
'You're dreaming.' But I wasn't--quite, for the thin black streak was a
Zeppelin----"

She came up close to him and laid her hand on his arm. He towered above
her. "Randy," she asked, "was the war very dreadful?"

"Yes," he said, "it was. More dreadful than you people at home can ever
grasp. But I want you to know this, Becky, that there isn't one of us
who wouldn't go through it again in the same cause."

There was no swagger in his statement, just simple earnestness. The room
was very still for a moment.

Then Becky said, "Well, it's awfully nice to have you home again," and
Randy, looking down at the little hand on his arm, had to hold on to
himself not to put his own over it.

But she was too dear and precious----! So he just said, gently, "And I'm
glad to be at home, my dear," and they walked to the window together,
and stood looking out at the moon. Behind them the old eagle watched
with outstretched wings, the great free bird which we stamp on American
silver, backed with "In God We Trust." It is not a bad combination, and
things in this country might, perhaps, have been less chaotic if we had