“I’m glad, somehow,—so long as I belong to both places,—that Woodford can claim a share in the Alamo.” And Blue Bonnet went on to tell the story as her father used to tell it to her; seeing, and making Alec see the tragic drama enacted there in that little church near San Antonio during those memorable three weeks; the struggle, the heroic courage, the no less heroic endurance of the men, who, like the Old Guard, could die, but would not surrender.
“I don’t wonder your Texans took ‘Remember the Alamo’ for their war-cry afterwards!” Alec said. There was an eager light in the boy’s gray eyes; he had not come of a race of soldiers for nothing.
He was not much more talkative going home than he had been coming, but from a different reason, Blue Bonnet felt sure; and she lingered a moment on the porch, watching him cross the lawn after saying good night. “Will he, or won’t he, Solomon?” she asked.
As she came up the drive the next afternoon, after her ride with the club, Alec came to meet her. “See here,” he said, stroking the head Chula stretched towards him, “I’ve been thinking—”
“Did it come hard?” Blue Bonnet laughed.
“I’ll settle that score later! We’ll stick to business now, if you please. My New England thrift makes me hate to see good material going to waste.”
“He will do it!” Blue Bonnet told herself. “Then why not prevent it?” she asked.
“Don’t you feel an inner call to turn that Alamo business into a Sargent?”
Blue Bonnet stroked Chula’s mane thoughtfully; “No,” she answered, “I don’t think I do;” and to herself, she added, that she didn’t—now.
“I’ve a notion that if you don’t do something of the sort your Woodford relatives will be a bit disappointed.”