“I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind showing me your collections?” she asked. “And don’t you think we might get a walk later? I think being out in the rain is fun.”
“I wonder if I did at sixteen?” Cousin Tracy answered, laying down his book, and going to open the doors of the tall cabinets where he kept his collections of rare coins and medals.
The medals interested Blue Bonnet more than the coins; they had been won by someone; each in itself represented some deed of daring, some act of courage. “Every one has its own story, hasn’t it?” she said.
“Yes,” Mr. Winthrop replied, “with the same theme as a foundation.”
“I wish you could tell me some of them.”
“I wish I could tell them to myself. And on the other side, think how many stories there are—to which there are no medals attached.”
“You mean?”
Mr. Winthrop sat down in the big chair opposite. The rain had stopped, and through the wide bow-window came a sudden flash of sunshine, lighting up the sober room, and turning the bronze medal in Blue Bonnet’s hand to gold. “You know the story of the Alamo?” he said.
“I could not be a Texas girl and not know it,” Blue Bonnet answered,—she could hardly remember when her father had first told it to her.
“There is a story to stir the hearts of men for all time! I should like an ‘Alamo medal’ to put among these others.”