onsciences. You ought to be equal in right doing. And in
love of country. You ought to know when war is righteous, and when peace
is righteous. And you can all be equal in this, that no man can make you
lie or steal or be a coward."

Thus she inspired them. Thus she saw them thrill as she had herself been
thrilled. And that was her reward. For in her school were not only the
little Johns and the little Thomases and the little Richards--she found
herself quite suddenly understanding why there were so many
Richards--there were also the little Ottos and the little Ulrics and the
little Wilhelms, and there was Francois, whose mother went out to sew by
the day, and there were Raphael and Alessandro and Simon. Out from the
big cities had come the parents of these children, seeking the land,
usurping the places of the old American stock, doing what had been left
undone in the way of sowing and planting and reaping, making the little
gardens yield as they had never yielded, even in those wonder days before
the war.

It was Anne Warfield's task to train the children of the newcomers to the
American ideal. With the blood in her of statesmen and of soldiers it
was given to her to pass on the tradition of good citizenship. She was,
indeed, a torch-bearer, lighting the way to love of country. Yet for a
little while she had forgotten it.

She had cried because she could not wear rose-color!

But now her head was high again, and when Richard came she showed him her
school, and he shook hands first with the little girls and then with the
little boys, and he looked down their throats, and asked them questions,
and joked and prodded and took their temperature, and he did it all in
such happy fashion that not even the littlest one was afraid.

And when Richard was ready to go, he said to her, "I'll look after their
bodies if you'll look after their minds," and as she watched him walk
away, she had a tingling sense that they had formed a compact which had
to do with things above and beyond the commonplace.

It began to snow in the afternoon, and it was snowing hard when the
school day ended. Eric Brand came for Anne and Peggy in the funny little
station carriage which was kept at Bower's. Eric and Anne sat on the
front seat with Peggy between them. The fat mare, Daisy, jogged placidly
along the still white road. There was a top to the carriage, but the snow
sifted in, so Anne wrapped Peggy in an old shawl.

"I don't need anything,"