lor accomplishments. I'd unhamper
women in every way I knew how, give them a training to use modern
tools, and then I'd give them the tools. They won't tear down homes
with them. Don't be afraid of that. Instinct is too strong. They'll
build better ones."

My brother shook his head. "I give you up, Ruth, I give you up,"
he said.

"Don't do that," she replied. "I'm like so many other girls in this age.
Don't give us up. We want you. We need your conservatism to balance and
steady. We need our new freedom guided and directed. We're the new
generation, Tom. We're the new spirit. There are hundreds--thousands--of
us. Don't give us up." I seemed to see Ruth's army suddenly swarming
about her as she spoke, and Ruth, starry-eyed and victorious, standing
on the summit in their midst.

CHAPTER XXXII

BOB DRAWS CONCLUSIONS TOO

It was Edith who told me the news about Mrs. Sewall. I ought to have
been prepared for anything. Ever since Ruth had been employed as
secretary to Mrs. Sewall there had been something mysterious about their
relations. Ruth had never explained the details of her life in the
Sewall household--I had never inquired too particularly--but whenever
she referred to Mrs. Sewall there was a troubled and sort of wistful
expression in her eyes which made me suspicious. She admired Mrs.
Sewall, no doubt of that. She felt deep affection for her. Several times
she had said to me during our intimate talks together, of which we had
had a good many lately, "Oh, Lucy, I wish the ocean wasn't so wide. I'd
run across for over a Sunday." I knew, without asking, that Ruth was
thinking of Mrs. Sewall. She was living in London.

Edith called me on the telephone early one Monday morning. She
frequently is in Boston, shopping. From the hour, evidently she
had just arrived from Hilton.

"Well," she began excitedly, "what have you got to say?"

"Say? What about?"

"Haven't you seen the paper?" she demanded.

"Not yet," I had to confess. "I've been terribly rushed this morning."

"You don't know what has happened, then?"

"No. What has? Out with it," I retorted a little alarmed. Edith's voice
was high-pitched and strained.

"The old lady Sewall has died."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I replied, relieved, however.

"In London--a week ago," went on Edith.

"Really? What a shame! Does Ruth know?"

"She ought to. It rather affects her."

"How's that?"

"How's that!" repeated Edith. "Good heavens, if you'd read your p