She saw them drive down the lane road, saw them turn at the big gate, through which they had so often come to play, and wave their khaki hats gayly. The wind was blowing from the east and the cedars bent before it,—blowing from the east like the breath of the war god. And Fred and Stanley were waving their hats gayly back to her, while the cedars bent and the wind blew from the east. They were like her own boys marching off to war. Children of her children, she loved them as she had loved their parents. Did a woman never get over loving? Deep love brought relatively deep heartaches. Why could not a woman of her age, whose family was raised, relinquish the hold upon her emotions? Why could she not have a peaceful old age, wherein there entered neither great affection nor its comrade, great sorrow? She had seen old women who seemed not to care as she was caring, whose emotions seemed to have died with their youth. Could she not be one of them? For a long time she stood in the window and looked at the cedars twisting before the east wind, like so many helpless women writhing under the call from the east.

All during those following strenuous months she felt almost as though the very outcome of the struggle depended upon her individual efforts. So she knit at home and at the G.A.R. hall, bought a liberty bond whenever she could, and conserving everything, ate frugally. And prayed,—prayed that right would prevail.

Fate willed that Fred Baker, Jr., and Stanley Deal should come back to their people from overseas. Young Dr. Fred went into partnership with his father, immediately; and Stanley, after a three-month’s period of recuperation, took back his old job in the bank.

Grace was teaching now in Wesleyan University. Life was still real and life was still earnest to Grace, splitting an infinitive one of its cardinal sins.

At thirty she received her second proposal of marriage from one of the younger college professors,—and refused him. Abbie was deeply concerned about it.

“Are you certain, Grace, you don’t love him?”

“Quite certain, Mother.” Grace was airily sure of herself.

“But Grace, . . . you’re thirty . . . even if you don’t look it.”

“Yes, I’m thirty, Mother. And thank you for the implied compliment.”

“Of course . . . if you don’t love him. . . . But he is such a nice man . . . and your being thirty. . . .” Abbie’s voice trailed off uncertainly.

Grace laughed. “Can’t you conceive of a woman being happy, Mother, without a man at her heels?”

“But, Grace, it’s so natural, . . . so . . . normal.”

“Well, that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to me.”

“ ‘That sort of thing!’ Why, Grace, it’s the finest thing in the world when it’s the right man.”

Grace was impatient. “See here, Mother, I have my life all mapped out, and a man doesn’t figure in it. I want to be free and independent. I want to do more research work in the East. And I’m perfectly satisfied with my lot. I have at present one hundred and twenty students in my classes, a large number of whom are fitting themselves to be teachers. If two-thirds of them go out to teach, that will be eighty new instructors. They, in time, will teach an average of forty students each and the result is, I have directly and indirectly influenced three thousand two hundred students.”