JOEL. What you mean?
ANDREW. No matter, no matter; this is gush.
[He returns to the fire and begins to fumble over the contents of his knapsack. Joel watches him idly.
JOEL. One of her curls?
ANDREW. [Looking at a lock of hair in the firelight.] No; the baby's, little Andy's. Some day they'll tell him how his father——
[He winces, and puts the lock away.
JOEL. [Going toward the embankment.] Listen!
ANDREW. [Ties up the package, muttering.] Son of a traitor!
JOEL. [Tiptoeing back.] It's crowed—that's her.
[Leaping to his feet, Andrew stares toward the embankment where the flag is dipped; then turns his back to it, closing his eyes and gripping his hands.