endid
young people guilty of such crudities, because our American youth is so
fine at heart.

When the great artist Rodin died, I went to the public ceremony held in
his memory. Suddenly I realized that America and France each had
something left that war had not destroyed. A young American art
student, who had given up his career for his uniform, and was invalided
back in Paris minus an arm, stood very near me. As he turned to Colonel
House I heard him say:

"Rodin's going is another battle lost."

It was typical of the American quality of which we have cause to
boast--the fineness of heart that is in our young people.

The day of the armistice in France, those of us who are older stood
looking on and realizing that all class distinctions, all race, age, and
pursuits, had been wiped off the map. People were just people. There
was a complete abandon. I am not a young woman, but I was caught up by
the fury of the crowd, and swept along singing, laughing, weeping.
Young soldiers passing would reach out to touch my hand, sometimes to
kiss me.

That night I believed that the war had broken down many of our barriers;
that all foolish customs had died; that the terrific price paid in human
blood and human suffering had at least left a world honest with itself,
simple and ready for good comradeship; that men were measured by
manliness and women by ideals. It was a part of the armistice day
fervor, but I believed it.

And then I came home and went to Newport.

V.

Just before I came home to America in the Spring of 1919, I went to
Essex for a week-end in one of those splendid old estates which are the
pride of England.

It was not my first visit, but I was awed anew by the immensity of the
place, its culture and wealth which seemed to have existed always, its
aged power and pride. Whole lives had been woven into its window
curtains and priceless rugs; centuries of art lived in the great
tapestries; successive generations of great artists had painted the
ancestors of the present owner.

All three sons of that house went into the war. One never returned from
Egypt, another is buried in Flanders. Only the youngest returned.

At first glance the smooth life seemed unchanged in the proud old house.
But before sundown of my first day there, I knew that life had put its
acid test to the shield and proved it pure gold.

War taxes had fallen heavily on the estate and it was to be leased to an
American.